have caused the
death of a girl admired by her husband, under the outrageous handling
of his soldiery. The power wielded by the lady's love depends, we
repeat, on her being alone. Whatever her age and figure, she becomes
the dream of all. The Witch takes mischievous delight in making her
abuse her goddesship, in tempting her to make game of the men she
humbles and befools. She goes to all lengths of boldness, even
treating them like very beasts. Look at them being transformed! Down
on all fours they tumble, like fawning monkeys, absurd bears, lewd
dogs, or swine eager to follow their contemptuous Circe.

Her pity rises thereat? Nay, but she grows sick of it all, and kicks
those crawling beasts with her foot. The thing is impure, but not
heinous enough. An absurd remedy is found for her complaint. These
others being so nought, she is to have something yet more
nought--namely, a little sweetheart. The advice is worthy of the
Witch. Love's spark shall be lighted before its time in some young
innocent, sleeping the pure sleep of childhood! Here you have the ugly
tale of little John of Saintre, pink of cherubim, and other paltry
puppets of the Age of Decay.

Through all those pedantic embellishments and sentimental
moralizings, one clearly marks the vile cruelty that lies below. The
fruit was killed in the flower. Here, in a manner, is the very "eating
of children," which was laid so often to the Witch's charge. Anyhow,
she drained their lives. The fair lady who caresses one in so tender
and motherly a way, what is she but a vampire, draining the blood of
the weak? The upshot of such atrocities we may gather from the tale
itself. Saintre becomes a perfect knight, but so utterly frail and
weak as to be dared and defied by the lout of a peasant priest, in
whom the lady, become better advised, has seen something that will
suit her best.

* * * * *

Such idle whimsies heighten the surfeit, the mad rage of an empty
mind. Circe among her beasts grows so weary and heartsick that she
would be a beast herself. She fancies herself wild, and locks herself
up. From her tower she casts an evil eye towards the gloomy forest.
She fancies herself a prisoner, and rages like a wolf chained fast.
"Let the old woman come this moment: I want her. Run!" Two minutes
later again: "What! is she not come yet?"

At last she is come. "Hark you: I have a sore longing--invincible, as
you know--to choke you, to drown