urable depths in
countless glistening pearls. Over the refreshing fountain, and far
away upon the nodding blades of grass, and bearded turf-flowers,
hovered, in giddy graceful sport, a variegated troop of gorgeous
butterflies. The majestic and solemn _Silver-mantle_, the cherub of
these winged dwellers of the air, the soft and exquisite
_Peacock's-eye_, the burning _Purple-bird_, were here assembled. Bolko
was ravished with the sight, and thought of nothing but a glorious
capture. Delicate and lovely as the creatures were, his cruel hand
robbed them of their gladsome life; and he pursued them further and
further across the moor, and with such ardour and desire, that he
forgot all other things, and suffered the very object of his visit to
escape from his remembrance. Suddenly, and in the act of imprisoning a
multitude of these illuminated beings, he perceived a Maiden sitting
at the extremity of the moor, her back towards him. Her form was
slender, and her hair, golden as the sun, travelled in burnished
tresses from her shoulders to the earth, where it curled along the
moor-grass like rays of the divine orb itself. After the manner of
Sclavonian girls, the stranger wore a closely-fitting snow-white cap,
or rather frontlet, from which, as from a chaplet, the beautiful hair
streamed down. Bolko had approached the maiden unperceived, near
enough to discern a butterfly of rare magnitude and unequaled beauty
oscillating about her marble forehead. The youth stole cautiously
behind the fair one, and tried to catch the flutterer. He touched the
maiden in his eager movement, and she turned round immediately.

"'Forgive me, lovely child!' said he. 'I'----The words died upon his
tongue. He could say no more. The butterfly escaped from his hands,
and flew slowly towards the Gold Spring, changing its brilliant
colours with every motion of its wing.

"The singular beauty of the maiden had struck the baron dumb. From a
soft transparent countenance of the purest form, there beamed upon him
a pair of eyes which had derived their holy light from the very
fountain-head of Love. She wore an uncommon but most becoming dress.

"To a party-coloured gown, scarcely reaching to her ankle, was
attached a sky-blue boddice in front, united by perfect silver clasps,
and not so closely as to prevent the sweetest glimmering of a
snow-white virgin bosom. Her arms, round, delicate, and pure as
marble, were uncovered to the shoulders. Her small feet we