unto mine, I neither saw nor thought of the scene around me.

But before my eyes came back the old, familiar places--the pasture lot,
the lane, the narrow road up the hill, the river winding along between
great stretches of brown corn, the aisle of maple trees, and the
fountain where we drank so many, many times together--and I smelled the
fragrance of the flowers and trees abloom, and I heard the dear voices
and the sweet sounds of my boyhood days.

Then presently a mighty shudder awakened me from this dreaming. And I
cried out with affright and grief, for I felt that I was alone.

THE WEREWOLF

In the reign of Egbert the Saxon there dwelt in Britain a maiden named
Yseult, who was beloved of all, both for her goodness and for her
beauty. But, though many a youth came wooing her, she loved Harold
only, and to him she plighted her troth.

Among the other youth of whom Yseult was beloved was Alfred, and he was
sore angered that Yseult showed favor to Harold, so that one day Alfred
said to Harold: "Is it right that old Siegfried should come from his
grave and have Yseult to wife?" Then added he, "Prithee, good sir, why
do you turn so white when I speak your grandsire's name?"

Then Harold asked, "What know you of Siegfried that you taunt me? What
memory of him should vex me now?"

"We know and we know," retorted Alfred. "There are some tales told us
by our grandmas we have not forgot."

So ever after that Alfred's words and Alfred's bitter smile haunted
Harold by day and night.

Harold's grandsire, Siegfried the Teuton, had been a man of cruel
violence. The legend said that a curse rested upon him, and that at
certain times he was possessed of an evil spirit that wreaked its fury
on mankind. But Siegfried had been dead full many years, and there was
naught to mind the world of him save the legend and a cunning-wrought
spear which he had from Brunehilde, the witch. This spear was such a
weapon that it never lost its brightness, nor had its point been
blunted. It hung in Harold's chamber, and it was the marvel among
weapons of that time.

Yseult knew that Alfred loved her, but she did not know of the bitter
words which Alfred had spoken to Harold. Her love for Harold was
perfect in its trust and gentleness. But Alfred had hit the truth: the
curse of old Siegfried was upon Harold--slumbering a century, it had
awakened in the blood of the grandson, and Harold knew the curse that
was upon him, and