Wyseby

28 WYSEBY : A LEGEND
shrieking for very joy ! Hour after hour passes, still
she gazes on. There, there, in that mad vortex the
brave vessel struggles. Now advancing — now driven
back — now invisible, deep, deep down with the foun-
dations of the earth, — now leaping up, piercing the
sky, whirling in mid-air, — now rushing down head-
long. They are brave hearts who man that vessel.
Courage, gallant ones ! There is a Power mighty
above the might of the four leagued elements — im-
measurably stronger than they.
Night wears on apace. Now from the deep valley
comes up the low moan of the Spirit of Night, sigh-
ing in mysterious consciousness that far beyond the
stars and the deep blue the Storm-god is ascending
his car, and that his panting steeds, Havoc and Ruin,
wait but for the slackening of the reins. On the
bleak promontory, unconscious of all this, sits Edith,
— sad, not with the sadness of sorrow, but of loneli-
ness. Now the sky is darkened as the face of a
mourner. Fearfully audible is the tread of the steeds
of the Spirit of the storm. From the wilderness of
space, through the wide empire of night, thundering,
down-rushing they come. Space echoes the sound of
their tread ; fire gushes from their outspread nostrils ;
earth trembles with fear ; the maiden is viewless in
the high heart of night, yet she is there, lovely as a
thought of heaven in a human heart, else all darken-
ed by sin, the while storm-tossed by the rage of un-
controlled passions.
But the grey morning comes, and the Storm-god
rushes on the tract of retiring night, to his hall
beyond the stars; and the winds shrink — cravens
that they are ! — after their night of fearful revelry,
back to their distant caves. The waves roll and toss