For hereby is a wood-lawn clear And good for awhile for us it were."

Therewith she took him by the hand And led him into the lighter land.

There on the gra.s.s they sat adown.

Clad she was in a kirtle brown.

In all the world was never maid So fair, so evilly arrayed.

No shoes upon her feet she had And scantly were her shoulders clad;

Through her brown kirtle's rents full wide Shone out the sleekness of her side.

An old scrip hung about her neck, Nought of her raiment did she reck.

No shame of all her rents had she; She gazed upon him eagerly.

She leaned across the gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce And put her hands about his face.

She said: "O hunger-pale art thou, Yet shalt thou eat though I hunger now."

She took him apples from her scrip, She kissed him, cheek and chin and lip.

She took him cakes of woodland bread: "Whiles am I hunger-pinched," she said.

She had a gourd and a pilgrim sh.e.l.l; She took him water from the well.

She stroked his breast and his scarlet gear; She spake, "How brave thou art and dear!"

Her arms about him did she wind; He felt her body dear and kind.

"O love," she said, "now two are one, And whither hence shall we be gone?"

"Shall we fare further than this wood,"

Quoth he, "I deem it dear and good?"

She shook her head, and laughed, and spake; "Rise up! For thee, not me, I quake.

Had she been minded me to slay Sure she had done it ere to-day.

But thou: this hour the crone shall know That thou art come, her very foe.

No minute more on tidings wait, Lest e'en this minute be too late."

She led him from the sunlit green, Going sweet-stately as a queen.

There in the dusky wood, and dim, As forth they went, she spake to him:

"Fair man, few people have I seen Amidst this world of woodland green:

But I would have thee tell me now If there be many such as thou."

"Betwixt the mountains and the sea, O Sweet, be many such," said he.

Athwart the glimmering air and dim With wistful eyes she looked on him.

"But ne'er an one so shapely made Mine eyes have looked upon," she said.

He kissed her face, and cried in mirth: "Where hast thou dwelt then on the earth?"

"Ever," she said, "I dwell alone With a hard-handed cruel crone.

And of this crone am I the thrall To serve her still in bower and hall;

And fetch and carry in the wood, And do whate'er she deemeth good.

But whiles a sort of folk there come And seek my mistress at her home;

But such-like are they to behold As make my very blood run cold.

Oft have I thought, if there be none On earth save these, would all were done!

Forsooth, I knew it was nought so, But that fairer folk on earth did grow.

But fain and full is the heart in me To know that folk are like to thee."

Then hand in hand they stood awhile Till her tears rose up beneath his smile.

And he must fold her to his breast To give her heart a while of rest.

Till sundered she and gazed about, And bent her brows as one in doubt.

She spake: "The wood is growing thin, Into the full light soon shall we win.

Now crouch we that we be not seen, Under yon bramble-bushes green."

Under the bramble-bush they lay Betwixt the dusk and the open day.

"O Goldilocks my love, look forth And let me know what thou seest of worth."

He said: "I see a house of stone, A castle excellently done."

"Yea," quoth she, "There doth the mistress dwell What next thou seest shalt thou tell."