Which Speaketh for Itself

It was not the piping of throstle or sweet-throated merle that had waked my Beltane, who with slumberous eyes stared up at carven canopy, round him upon rich arras, and down upon embroidered bed-covering and silken pillow, while through the narrow lattice the young sun played upon gilded roof-beam and polished floor. So lay Beltane, blinking sleepy eyes and hearkening to a soft and melodious whistling from the little garden below his casement.

Being thus heavy with sleep, he wondered drowsily what great content was this that filled him, and wherefore? Wondering yet, he sighed, and because of the sun's radiance, closed slumberous eyes again and would have slept; but, of a sudden the whistling ceased, and a rich, sweet voice fell to gentle singing.

"Hark! in the whisper of the wind Love calleth thee away, Each leaf a small, soft voice doth find, Each pretty bird doth cry in kind, O heart, haste north to-day."

Beltane sat up broad awake, for Blaen lay to the north, and in Blaen-- But Giles was singing on: "Youth is quick to speed away, But love abideth ever. Fortune, though she smile to-day, Fickle is and will not stay, But true-love changeth never.

"The world doth change, as change it must, But true-love changeth never. Proud ambition is but dust, The bow doth break, the sword doth rust, But love abideth ever."

Beltane was leaning half out of the casement, of the which fact who so unconscious as Giles, busily furbishing armour and bascinet.