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"It is the season and the hour," said Halbert to himself; "and now I—I might soon become wiser than Edward with all his pains! Mary should see whether he alone is fit to be consulted, and to sit by her side, and hang over her as she reads, and point out every word and every letter. And she loves me better than him—I am sure she does—for she comes of noble blood, and scorns sloth and cowardice.—And do I myself not stand here slothful and cowardly as any priest of them all?—Why should I fear to call upon this form—this shape?—Already have I endured the vision, and why not again? What can it do to me, who am a man of lith and limb, and have by my side my father's sword? Does my heart beat—do my hairs bristle, at the thought of calling up a painted shadow, and how should I face a band of Southrons in flesh and blood? By the soul of the first Glendinning, I will make proof of the charm!"

He cast the leathern brogue or buskin from his right foot, planted himself in a firm posture, unsheathed his sword, and first looking around to collect his resolution, he bowed three times deliberately towards the holly-tree, and as often to the little fountain, repeating at the same time, with a determined voice, the following rhyme:

  "Thrice to the holly brake—   Thrice to the welclass="underline" —   I bid thee awake,   White Maid of Avenel!
  "Noon gleams on the Lake—   Noon glows on the Fell—   Wake thee, O wake,   White Maid of Avenel!"

These lines were hardly uttered, when there stood the figure of a female clothed in white, within three steps of Halbert Glendinning.

  "I guess'twas frightful there to see   A lady richly clad as she—   Beautiful exceedingly."[32]

* * * * *

Chapter the Twelfth.

There's something in that ancient superstition, Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. The spring that, with its thousand crystal bubbles, Bursts from the bosom of some desert rock In secret solitude, may well be deem'd The haunt of something purer, more refined, And mightier than ourselves.
OLD PLAY.

Young Halbert Glendinning had scarcely pronounced the mystical rhymes, than, as we have mentioned in the conclusion of the last chapter, an appearance, as of a beautiful female, dressed in white, stood within two yards of him. His terror for the moment overcame his natural courage, as well as the strong resolution which he had formed, that the figure which he had now twice seen should not a third time daunt him. But it would seem there is something thrilling and abhorrent to flesh and blood, in the consciousness that we stand in presence of a being in form like to ourselves, but so different in faculties and nature, that we can neither understand its purposes, nor calculate its means of pursuing them.

Halbert stood silent and gasped for breath, his hairs erecting themselves on his head—-his mouth open—his eyes fixed, and, as the sole remaining sign of his late determined purpose, his sword pointed towards the apparition. At length with a voice of ineffable sweetness, the White Lady, for by that name we shall distinguish this being, sung, or rather chanted, the following lines:—

  "Youth of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me?    Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee?    He that seeks to deal with us must know no fear nor failing!    To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing.
  The breeze that brought me hither now, must sweep Egyptian ground,    The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound;    The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay,    For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day."

The astonishment of Halbert began once more to give way to his resolution, and he gained voice enough to say, though with a faltering accent, "In the name of God, what art thou?" The answer was in melody of a different tone and measure:—

  "What I am I must not show—    What I am thou couldst not know—    Something betwixt heaven and hell—    Something that neither stood nor fell—    Something that through thy wit or will    May work thee good—may work thee ill.
  Neither substance quite nor shadow,    Haunting lonely moor and meadow,    Dancing; by the haunted spring,    Riding on the whirlwind's wing;
  Aping in fantastic fashion    Every change of human passion,    While o'er our frozen minds they pass,    Like shadows from the mirror'd glass.
  Wayward, fickle is our mood,    Hovering betwixt bad and good,    Happier than brief-dated man,    Living twenty times his span;    Far less happy, for we have    Help nor hope beyond the grave!
  Man awakes to joy or sorrow;    Ours the sleep that knows no morrow.    This is all that I can show—    This is all that thou mayest know."

The White Lady paused, and appeared to await an answer; but, as Halbert hesitated how to frame his speech, the vision seemed gradually to fade, and became more and more incorporeal. Justly guessing this to be a symptom of her disappearance, Halbert compelled himself to say,—"Lady, when I saw you in the glen, and when you brought back the black book of Mary Avenel, thou didst say I should one day learn to read it."

The White Lady replied,

  "Ay! and I taught thee the word and the spell,    To waken me here by the Fairies' Well,    But thou hast loved the heron and hawk,    More than to seek my haunted walk;
  And thou hast loved the lance and the sword,    More than good text and holy word;    And thou hast loved the deer to track,    More than the lines and the letters black;
  And thou art a ranger of moss and of wood,    And scornest the nurture of gentle blood."

"I will do so no longer, fair maiden," said Halbert; "I desire to learn; and thou didst promise me, that when I did so desire, thou wouldst be my helper; I am no longer afraid of thy presence, and I am no longer regardless of instruction." As he uttered these words, the figure of the White Maiden grew gradually as distinct as it had been at first; and what had well-nigh faded into an ill-defined and colourless shadow, again assumed an appearance at least of corporeal consistency, although the hues were less vivid, and the outline of the figure less distinct and defined—so at least it seemed to Halbert—than those of an ordinary inhabitant of earth. "Wilt thou grant my request," he said, "fair Lady, and give to my keeping the holy book which Mary of Avenel has so often wept for?"

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32

Coleridge's Christabelle.