awoke to forget his kingly honour and the good of all his
people, his only desire being towards the Witch of Moel Sarbod.

Now, there lived in this Kingdom by the sea a great Magician; and
Purity, who loved the King far better than herself, bethought her of
him, and of all she had heard concerning his power and wisdom; and went
to him and besought his aid that she might save the King. There was but
one way to accomplish this: with bare feet Purity must climb the rocky
path leading to the Witch's dwelling, go boldly up to her, not fearing
her sharp claws nor her strong teeth, and kiss her upon the mouth. In
this way the spirit of Purity would pass into the Witch's soul, and she
would become a woman. But the form and spirit of the Witch would pass
into Purity, transforming her, and in the Cave of the Waters she must
forever abide. Thus Purity gave herself that the King might live. With
bleeding feet she climbed the rocky path, clasped the Witch's form
within her arms, kissed her on the mouth. And the Witch became a woman
and reigned with the King over his people, wisely and helpfully. But
Purity became a hideous witch, and to this day abides on Moel Sarbod,
where is the Cave of the Waters. And they who climb the mountain's side
still hear above the roaring of the cataract the sobbing of Purity,
the King's betrothed. But many liken it rather to a joyous song of love
triumphant.

No writer worth his salt was ever satisfied with anything he ever wrote,
so I have been told, and so I try to believe. Evidently I am not worth
my salt. Candid friends, and others, to whom in my salad days I used
to show my work, asking for a frank opinion, meaning, of course, though
never would they understand me, their unadulterated praise, would assure
me for my good, that this, my first to whom the gods gave life, was but
a feeble, ill-shaped child: its attempted early English a cross between
"The Pilgrim's Progress" and "Old Moore's Almanac;" its scenery--which
had cost me weeks of research--an apparent attempt to sum up in the
language of a local guide book the leading characteristics of the Garden
of Eden combined with Dante's Inferno; its pathos of the penny-plain
and two-penny-coloured order. Maybe they were right. Much have I written
since that at the time appeared to me good, that I have read later
with regret, with burning cheek, with frowning brow. But of this, my
first-born, the harbinger of all my hopes, I am no judge. Touching the