A song of deathless Love, immortal,
Sunrise-haired and starry-eyed and wondrous.
Fiona MacLeod.
Within the tent where Stella lived each thing was sweet and pure.
Her magic charm had spread over all she touched.
Old Zorka had thus decreed that she should always have a dwelling that need be shared with none. It was as poor a place as those around, but within the folding walls was a haven of rest and peace.
On its rustic canvas sides hung all the withered wreaths that day by day she had worn. The one she had just removed from her tresses was still quite fresh, and softly swayed over the door.
Eric had found in the early morn, beneath a protecting tree, a whole bunch of scarlet strawberry leaves that the autumnal frosts had not yet touched; he had wound therefrom a lovely garland, all crimson and red, that throughout the day had crowned the loved one's brow.
A fire close by cast a friendly light through every crevice, so that the humble dwelling looked warm and homely, in spite of its barren poorness and the drear solitude upon which it stood.
Before the wide-open entry sat the mysterious maiden on an ancient wooden chest, her much-loved violin, as always, pressed tenderly beneath her cheek.