As the King turned with questioning look to Hagan, the latter said: "I supposed the feast was to be held elsewhere and ordered the wine sent to that place. However, there is a clear, cold stream near by that we may drink from. I have heard how fleet of foot you are, friend Siegfried. Let us race to the brook and see who shall be the winner."

Pleased with the idea of such sport Siegfried agreed. At once he set out swiftly, running with Hagan and Gunther, and easily reached the little creek before the others. However, out of courtesy, he let the King drink first, then with eager thirst he bent over the cool, glittering water. Immediately the King and Hagan bore away the weapons that lay by his side, and as the good knight touched his lips to the water, Hagan drove the spear full into the spot marked by the little cross.

In vain did Siegfried leap to his feet to recover his weapons, and combat with those who had given him the base blow. Nothing was left him but his shield, which he flung with such terrible force as to overthrow the fleeing Hagan. Before his looks of wrathful reproach the guilty pair shuddered in strange terror. Then, his anger giving way to a strange calm, he called to his betrayers: "Yours is the sorrow of this day! Not even in death can cowardice and treachery triumph over love and loyalty."

Thus speaking, the good King Siegfried sank upon the flowers of the meadow, and died as bravely as he had lived.

Carlyle translated parts of the Nibelungenlied. He describes the death of Siegfried as follows:

"Then, as to drink, Sir Siegfried down kneeling

there be found,

He pierced him through the croslet, that sudden from the wound

Forth the life-blood spurted, e'en o'er his murderer's weed.

Nevermore will warrior dare so foul a deed.

With blood were all bedabbled the flowerets of the field.

Some time with death he struggled as though he scorned to yield

E'en to the foe whose weapon strikes down the loftiest head.

At last prone in the meadow lay mighty Siegfried dead."

NIGHT

By ROBERT SOUTHEY

How beautiful is night!
A dewy freshness fills the silent air;

No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain,
Breaks the serene of heaven:

In full-orb'd glory yonder moon divine
Rolls through the dark-blue depths.
Beneath her steady ray

The desert-circle spreads,

Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky.
How beautiful is night!

LOCHINVAR

By SIR WALTER SCOTT

YOUNG LOCHINVAR is come out

of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all

alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for

stone,

He swam the Eske River where ford there was

none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a

word),

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,

And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Loch-
invar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,

"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bridemaidens whispered, ""T were better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung;

"She is won! we are gone; over bank, bush, and

scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;