“To make a chain for the heart.”
“There’s a chain round my heart already,” said her lover, still hesitating. “Won’t it spoil your hair?”
“Maurice! how tiresome you are! Cut it off at once.”
She stamped her foot with pretty petulance, so, seeing she was obstinate, he carefully sheared off the tress close to her head. This being done, she shook her locks over the shorn place, and, sitting down in her chair once more, began to weave the shining hair into a delicate chain.
“You silly child, making me despoil you of your glory!” said Maurice, touched by her action. “There, let me put my sword up again, and I will help you.”
“Hold the end of the chain then, and do not talk, or you will break the charm.”
Maurice, sheathing his sword, knelt down before her, and, taking one end of the glittering coil daintily between finger and thumb, watched her weaving the threads rapidly together, crooning the while a strange old song in a low voice.
“Weave the threads of golden hair,
Golden future also weaving.
Happy be thy fortunes fair,