She sang the second verse. Again I waited, wondering, then hoping and longing that she would continue.
The third verse came at last and—I regretted its coming.
A maid there was in the North Countree;
A sad little, lone little maid was she.
Her knight seemed fickle and all untrue
As he rode to war at the drummer's dree.
And, day by day, as her sorrow grew,
Her spinning wheel groaned and the threads wove through;
It groaned.—It groaned.—It groaned and the threads wove through.
"What a stupid little song, after all!" I exclaimed. "Surely there must be another verse to it? Where does the happy ending come in?"
But, though I listened eagerly, no further sounds broke the stillness of the night save the sobbing and moaning of the sea and the hooting of a friendly owl in the forest behind.
CHAPTER XXV
The Ghoul
Next morning, I looked out upon a wet mist that hung over Golden Crescent like a spider's gigantic web all a-drip with dew.
My visitors of the previous night had gone three hours ago. I had heard them getting up steam, but I was still too weak and stiff to think of getting out of bed so early to see them off.