HYNDE ETIN
May Margaret did not love to sew, yet here in the doorway of her bower she sat, her silk seam in her hand.
May Margaret sat with her seam in her hand, but she did not sew, she dreamed, and her dream was all of Elmond wood.
She was there herself under the greenwood gay. The tall trees bowed, the little trees nodded to her. The flowers threw their sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds sang their gladdest that she might hear. How fair and green and cool it was in the wood of Elmond!
On a sudden, Margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower. She dreamed no more. The sound of the hunting-horn rang in her ear. It was blown in Elmond wood.
Then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet the needle. May Margaret was up and away to the greenwood.
Down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor noticed that the dew fell fast.
No one did May Margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn tree. There, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang Hynde Etin.
'What do ye seek in the wood, May Margaret?' said he. 'Is it flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of May?'
But Margaret did not care to answer. She only shook her head.