At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.
The child lay there a long time.
Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.
“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”
The child trembled, but did not get up.
Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you. Come, open the door.”
As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the great bolts and lifted the door latch.
There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.
“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”
Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.