"These villainous bipeds do fearfully exorbitate mine ear," said the agonised musician. "'Tis not in the power of aught human to harmonise the strings."
The clamour increased with every effort, until the whole community were in an uproar, driving the incensed wooer fairly off the field. Trusting that he should be able to eke out the tune in spite of these interruptions, he hastened immediately to his destination. He crossed a narrow bridge and passed through a gap into the garden, taking his station on one side of the house, where he commenced a low prelude by way of ascertaining if the lady were within hearing, and likewise the situation of her chamber. To his inexpressible delight a window, nearly opposite the tree under which he stood, was gently opened, and he could distinguish a figure in white moving gently behind the drapery. He now determined to try the full power of his instrument, and warbled, with no inconsiderable share of skill and pathos, the following ditty:—
"Fair as the moonbeam,
Bright as the running stream,
Sparkling, yet cold;
In Love's tiny fingers
A shaft yet there lingers,
And he creeps to thy bosom, and smiles, lady.
Soon his soft wings will cherish
A flame round thine heart,
And ere it may perish
Thy peace shall depart.
Oh listen, listen, lady gay;
Love doth not always sue;
The brightest flame will oft decay,
The fondest lover rue, lady!
The fondest lover rue, lady!"
At the conclusion he saw a hand, presently an arm, stretched out through the casement. Something fell from it, which glistened with a snowy whiteness in the clear moonlight. He ran to seize the treasure—a scrap of paper neatly folded—which, after a thankful and comely obeisance towards the window, he deposited in his bosom. The casement was suddenly closed. The lover, eager to read his billet, made all imaginable haste to regain the road, where, mounting his steed, he arrived in a brief space, almost breathless with anticipation and impatience, at his own door. The contents of the despatch were quickly revealed in manner following:—
"I know thine impatience; but faith must have its test. Send a message to my father; win his consent to thy suit; but as thou holdest my favour in thine esteem come not near the house thyself ere one month have elapsed. Ask not why; 'tis sufficient that I have willed it. Shouldst thou not obey, I renounce thee for ever.
"This shall be the test of thy fidelity.
Katherine."
He kissed the writing again and again; he skipped round the chamber like unto one demented; and when the old housekeeper, who was in a sore ill-temper at being deprived of her accustomed allowance of rest, came in to know his intentions about supper, he bade her go dream of love and give supper to the hogs.