Each weak and skill-less stroke,
Yet strove the maids again, again,
With walnut, beech, and oak.

Until upon the wagon cast
By which the horses stood,
Their bleeding hands had piled at last
The goodly logs of wood.

But when Athracta saw the steeds
Straining with feeble will
To draw the heavy load, it needs
Must make her eyes to fill.

Athracta spoke all piteously,--
"Alack! poor broken things,
Must you, too, bear your painful share
To save the pride of Kings?

"How can I ease your burden, how,
My faithful servants still?
My little hands are bleeding now
With toil beyond their skill."

"O mistress dear," then spoke her maid,
"These be but feeble nags;
How would the King's pride be dismayed
If you could harness _Stags_!"

"Thou sayest well," Athracta vowed.
"Come hither, Stags!" she cried,
And lo! the thud of hoofs grew loud
Ere yet the echo died.

"Come hither, Stags!" O'er green and glade
The silver summons thrilled,
And soon the space about the maid
With antlered kings was filled.

Through moss and fern and tangled trees
Twelve panting creatures broke,
And bending low their stately knees
They knelt beneath the yoke.

Now harnessed in the horses' stead
The great Stags strained their best,
To please the Lady at their head
And follow her behest.

But lo! a vexing thing then happed;
Scarce had they gained the road,
The rusty chains of iron snapped
Beneath the heavy load.

Yet paused she not in weak despair,
This noble-hearted maid,
But loosed her heavy golden hair
Out from its double braid.

She loosed her locks so wonder-bright
And shook them to the breeze;--
It seemed a beam of yellow light
Had sifted through the trees.

Then from amid this golden net
She plucked some silken strands,
And where the chains had first been set
She bound them with her hands.

She tied the ends against the stra