hind, sometimes a wolf, and never stopping until exhausted by grief
and despair. But in consenting to the marriage of his daughter with
Prince Malabar, the king declared that, should she again change her
mind, he would never forgive her.

The happy day was once more fixed, and Papillette, three days
preceding, invited her lover to meet her in a delightful grove at the
extremity of the gardens. This grove was planted with myrtles, so
thick and high that they afforded a pleasant shade. Beautiful flowers
sprang up on all sides; and, added to the warblings of the birds in
the trees, were the voices of hidden musicians, singing a chorus,
composed by the princess herself. This, however, Malabar, who was a
soldier, and not a musician, and who naturally wished to have his
lady-love's society all to himself, did not sufficiently appreciate.

"Princess," said he, "I had much rather hear you talk than these
people sing."

"Are then those cares despised," replied Papillette, "which I have so
assiduously employed to amuse and gratify you by the display of my
talents?"

"Your dearest talent," cried he, "is that of pleasing: it comprises
every other. Send away these people, I pray." He added in a tone of
the utmost irritation: "I hate--I detest music!"

"Have I rightly heard?" exclaimed the princess angrily; "and do you
pretend to love, if your soul is insensible to such transporting
sounds?"

"I wish they would transport themselves far enough away," returned
the lover, who, like most other lovers, could be in an ill humour
sometimes. "My princess, do order this scraping and squalling to
cease."

"On the contrary, I order my musicians to remain," answered
Papillette, quite indignant, "and never, never will I unite myself to
him whom divine melody hath no power to move. Go, prince, barbarous
alike in taste and science, seek some rustic maid, best suited to your
insensibility."

The musicians, too far distant to hear these words, struck up a lively
tune. Malabar imagined this done in derision, and it required all his
respect for the princess to prevent him from falling on them sword in
hand. He repented much his words, but considered it beneath his
dignity to retract them; the princess also refused to retract hers: so
they parted.

Malabar resolved on instant death. Mounting the noblest courser in his
stable, he rode down to the sea-coast, and plunged him right over a
perpendicular cliff into the waters below.

The tide