348 THE LAY OF KAISER FREDERICK THE REDBEARD.

That monarch sad in captive lies to demon charm and spell,
To slumber on this lonely peak as holy legends tell.

Till once the Eagle, fierce and strong, from the far German north
To scare away the raven-swarm on conquering wing comes forth.

Then from his slumber he shall start that hero strong and bold,
And Germany again he'll rule as in the days of old.
And Germany be one once more, right glorious I ween—
But long alas! we've waited, and naught of it we've seen.

Into that realm of cloudland a shepherd once did stray,
And through the gloomy phantom-hall, awe-struck he traced his

way.

There, smote with fearful wonder, he saw the monarch rest,
The pale green moonlight streaming upon his purple vest.

And as the shepherd fearful to heaven did straightway kneel,
A strain of melody sublime, through the dim hall did peal:
It fell upon the midnight air-the echo died away-
And as it died the monarch woke-(would that it were to-day).

Thus to the wondering shepherd, with accents strange he spoke,
"Around the broken watch-tower, still do the ravens croak?
Say, or sits now the Eagle upon the ramparts high?”
And then he bowed his weary head and heaved a heavy sigh.

"My Sire," the herd replies, " alas! the ravens still are here,
Nor from the northward have I seen the Eagle yet appear,"
And then the Redbeard sighed-" again thou weary soul must
sleep,

For yet another hundred years poor Germany must weep."

Yet who alas! can tell us when lived that shepherd bold!

How many long decades since then the course of time has rolled. O Father Time fly swiftly, roll on the ages dim,

Still slumbers Barbarossa-when Eagle wak'st thou him?

THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

K

THE TENANTS OF MOOR LODGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

FLEMING OF GRIFFIN'S COURT," "GRACE CLIFFORD,"

66

CHAPTER VIII.

Two o'clock from the great clock tower of Rawdon church. The cold white snow lay thick and crisp, the whole earth covered with its white veil. So went the world outside, while within the parlour of Moor Lodge, the crimson fire-light quivered over the bowed figure of a woman, who half crouched, half knelt before it—a woman who dared not pray but could only fear.

In the room above, where the dying lay gasping out his life, Masters knelt before a worn leathern valise the key was in the lock, the lid flung wide and open on the floor; beside it was the heap of tossed papers he had flung on the table of the room below, now carefully tied together, nothing missing save the abstracted will. In the valise itself, whence he had taken them, hidden and wrapped up among sundry articles of old clothing, lay certain bags of coarse cloth, heavy to the touch, weighted with golden guineas. Masters took them up one by one, poised them in his hand, and laid them down again. The metal chinked as they fell upon each other with a tempting music. The warm rectory wine flowed fiery in his veins-to-morrow all this treasure would be his. Why not reap a grain of his harvest to-night?

He cut the cord, turned, and knotted, and sealed, on the mouth of the bag. He strewed out their contents before him; glittering heaps of golden guineas shimmering yellow in the flaring rushlight. What a time of royal feasting, what hours of wildest revelry, would not that hidden mass bring him. He drew a great breath, a long full breath, such as men draw after a draught of strong wine. His fingers went down amongst the glowing heap with a covetous fire leaping into his eyes; he gathered the gold up by handfuls and thrust it into his pockets, chinking the guineas together with insane half-drunken joy. His pockets were heavy with the coin, but he had not had enough. He opened the empty bag, and began filling it again with fierce energy.

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24

The room was full of a great dead silence, only the drop of the falling gold breaking it, as Masters went on rapidly re-filling the bag, never looking up once from his intended purpose. A little way off, the candle flared and guttered in the draught of the open door. A little way off the dying man sat up in the bed glaring at the robber, with eyes lighted by a momentary fire, mouthing at him with struggling voiceless lips.

Downstairs the fire was dying, and fading, the blazing pine logs falling down into heaps of feathery ashes, or sending out fitful quivers of ruddy flames, over the figure of the girl sitting alone before it.

She was a woman not given to fear, a woman of iron nerve, and iron will; to whom the common tremors of girlhood, or the pretty little frights and fancies of her sister women, were strangers. Yet she was afraid to-night, afraid with an awful fear. Not of the burned will, whose ashes had floated away, amongst the ashes of coal and pine log; but afraid of something intangible, uncertain, of a mighty weight, and a mighty terror, which oppressed her.

Without, the snow was falling again softly, the whole world profoundly sleeping, under the golden stars. Within, the house was full of a great silent stillness, broken sharply and suddenly by a long shrill cry.

Alice leaped up, crouching no longer, but roused, intent, and listening. It came again, the same shrill, quavering, treble cry. With a step swift and light she passed out of the parlour, and up the staircase.

The door of her uncle's room stood ajar; the candle, sputtering and wasting in the draught, gave only a poor light to the desolate room, but of that on which it fell she saw enough.

The old man was sitting up in bed, the half dead life that was in him, pulsed and quickened by the sight of daring hands touching his darling gold; his arms outstretched in menace towards his treasure, his lips, with their partially restored power, mowing out half intelligible curses and threats on the spoiler.

"Villain and robber! curse you, curse you!" he cried. Then came an inarticulate muttering, a wild swaying to and fro of his arms, a horrible working of his lips, struggling for fresh speech,

Masters was standing on his feet facing him, his strong figure square and stubborn, his cruel jaw set firm, and that stern look upon his face Alice had seen there once before. She drew herself nearer to the door, watching with strained eyes.

"I know you," came again from the old man's quivering lips, round which the white froth gathered thickly, "and I'll hang you before I die."