GATHER, first, in your left hand (This must be at fall of day) Forty grains of yellow sand Where you think a mermaid lay.

I have heard a wizard hint It is best to gather it sweet Out of the warm and fluttered dint Where you see her heart has beat.

_Out of the dint in that sweet sand Gather forty grains, I say; Yet--if it fail you--understand I can show you a better way._

Out of that sand you melt your gla.s.s While the veils of night are drawn, Whispering, till the shadows pa.s.s, _Nixie--pixie--leprechaun_--

Then you blow your magic vial, Shape it like a crescent moon, Set it up and make your trial, Singing, "_Fairies, ah, come soon!_"

_Round the cloudy crescent go, On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, "Elaby Gathon! Elaby Gathon!

Nixie--pixie--leprechaun._"

Bring the blood of a white hen, Killed about the break of day, While the c.o.c.k in the echoing glen Thrusts his gold neck every way, Over the brambles, peering, calling, Under the ferns, with a sudden fear, Far and wide, while the dews are falling, Clamouring, calling, everywhere.

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_Round the crimson vial go On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, "Nixie--pixie--leprechaun!"

And, if once will not suffice, Do it thrice.

If this fail, at break of day, I can show you a better way._

Bring the buds of the hazel-copse Where two lovers kissed at noon: Bring the crushed red wild thyme tops Where they walked beneath the moon;

Bring the four-leaved clover also, One of the white, and one of the red, Mixed with the flakes of the may that fall so Lightly over the sky-lark's bed.

_Round the fragrant vial go, On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, "Nixie--pixie--leprechaun!"

If this fail, at break of day, I can show you a better way._

Bring an old and wizened child --_Ah, tread softly and speak low_-- Tattered, tearless, wonder-wild.

From that under-world below; Bring a withered child of seven Reeking from the City slime, Out of h.e.l.l into your heaven, Set her knee-deep in the thyme.

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_Bring her from the smoky City, Set her on a fairy-throne.

Clothe her, feed her, of your pity.

Leave her for an hour alone._

You shall need no spells or charms On that hill-top, in that dawn.

When she lifts her wasted arms You shall see a veil withdrawn.

There shall be no veil between them, Though her head be old and wise.

You shall know that she has seen them, By the glory in her eyes.

_Round her irons, on the hill, Earth shall toss a fairy fire.

Watch and listen and be still, Lest you baulk your own desire._

When she sees four azure wings Light upon her claw-like hand; When she lifts her head and sings, You shall hear and understand.

You shall hear a bugle calling, Wildly over the dew-dashed down, And a sound as of the falling Ramparts of a conquered town.

_You shall hear a sound like thunder, And a veil shall be withdrawn, When her eyes grow wide with wonder, On that hill-top, in that dawn._

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OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH

_A TALE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL_

BY BARONESS ORCZY

_Painting by_ A. C. MICHAEL _and_ _Drawings by_ H. M. BROCK, R.I.

_Copyright, 1914, by the Baroness Orczy in the U.S.A._

WE were such a happy family before this terrible revolution broke out: we lived rather simply but very comfortably in our dear old home just on the borders of the forest of Compiegne. Jean and Andre were the twins; just fifteen years old they were when King Louis was deposed from the throne of France, which G.o.d had given him, and sent to prison like a common criminal, with our beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette and the Royal children and Madame Elizabeth, who was so beloved by the poor!

Ah! that seems very, very long ago now. No doubt you know better than I do all that happened in our beautiful land of France and in lovely Paris about that time: goods and property confiscated, innocent men, women, and children condemned to death for acts of treason which they had never committed.

It was in August last year that they came to "Mon Repos" and arrested papa, maman, and us four young ones and dragged us to Paris, where we were imprisoned in a narrow and horrible, dank vault in the Abbaye, where all day and night through the humid stone walls we heard cries and sobs and moans from poor people who no doubt were suffering the same sorrows and the same indignities as we were.

I had just pa.s.sed my nineteenth birthday and Marguerite was only thirteen. Maman was a perfect angel during that terrible time: she kept up our courage and our faith in G.o.d in a way that no one else could have done. Every night and morning we knelt round her knee, and papa sat close beside her, and we prayed to G.o.d for deliverance from our own afflictions, and for the poor people who were crying and moaning all the day.

But of what went on outside our prison walls we had not an idea, though sometimes poor papa would brave the warder's brutalities and ask him questions of what was happening in Paris every day.

"They are hanging all the aristos to the street-lamps of the city," the man would reply, with a cruel laugh, "and it will be your turn next."

We had been in prison for about a fortnight, then one day--oh! shall I ever forget it?--we heard in the distance a noise like the rumbling of thunder; nearer and nearer it came, and soon the sound became less confused. Cries and shrieks could be heard above that rumbling din, but so weird and menacing did those cries seem, that instinctively--though none of us knew what they meant--we all felt a nameless terror grip our hearts.

Oh! I am not going to attempt the awful task of describing to you all the horrors of that never-to-be-forgotten day. People who to-day cannot speak without a shudder of the September ma.s.sacres have not the remotest conception of what really happened on that truly awful second day of that month.

We are all at peace and happy now, but whenever my thoughts fly back to that morning, whenever the ears of memory recall those hideous yells of fury and of hate, coupled with the equally horrible cries for pity which pierced through the walls behind which the six of us were crouching, trembling, and praying, whenever I think of it all my heart still beats violently with that same nameless dread which held it in its deathly grip then.

Hundreds of men, women, and children were ma.s.sacred in the prisons of Paris on that day--it was a St. Bartholomew even more hideous than the last.

Maman was trying in vain to keep our thoughts fixed upon G.o.d--papa sat on the stone bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his head buried in his hands, but maman was kneeling on the floor with her dear arms encircling us all, and her trembling lips moving in continuous prayer.

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We felt that we were facing death--and what a death!--O, my G.o.d!

Suddenly the small grated window--high up in the dank wall--became obscured. I was the first to look up, but the cry of terror which rose from my heart was choked ere it reached my throat.