made her way thither in the
boat, she heard sweet music, as if one played upon a harp in the
waters, and, looking over the side of the boat, she beheld down in the
waters a sea-maiden making those exceeding pleasant sounds. And the
sea-maiden ceased to play, and smiled up at Eleanor, and stretched up
her hands and besought Eleanor to pluck her from the sea into the boat,
which seeking to do, Eleanor fell headlong into the waters, and was
never thereafter seen either alive or dead by any of her kin. Now
under this passing heavy grief Egbert, the son of Ib, being old and
spent by toil, brake down, and on a night died, making with his latest
breath most heavy lamentation for Eleanor, his wife; so died he, and
his soul sped, as they tell, to that far northern land where the souls
of the departed make merry all the night, which merriment sendeth forth
so vast and so beautiful a light that all the heavens are illumined
thereby. But Harold, the son of Egbert and of Eleanor, was left alone,
having neither brother, nor sister, nor any of kin, save an uncle
abiding many leagues distant in Jutland. Thereupon befell a wonderful
thing; if it had not happened it would not be told. It chanced that,
on a certain evening in the summer-time, Harold walked alone where a
Druid circle lay coiled like a dark serpent on a hillside; his heart
was filled with dolor, for he thought continually of Eleanor, his
mother, and he wept softly to himself through love of that dear mother.
While thus he walked in vast heaviness of soul, he was beheld of
Membril, the fairy that with her goodly subjects dwelt in the ruin of
the Pict's house hard by the Druid circle. And Membril had compassion
upon Harold, and upon the exceeding fine down of a tiny sea-bird she
rode out to meet him, and it was before his eyes as if a star shined
out of a mist in his pathway. So it was that Membril the fairy made
herself known to him, and having so done, she said and she sung:

I am Membril, queen of Fay,
That would charm thy grief away!
Thou art like the little bark
Drifting in the cold and dark,--
Drifting through the tempest's roar
To a rocky, icy shore;
All the torment dost thou feel
Of the spent and fearful seal
Wounded by the hunter's steel.
I am Membril,--hark to me:
Better times await on thee!
Wouldst thou clasp thy mother dear,--
Strange things see and stranger hear?
Straight betake thee to thy boat
And to yonder haven flo