She's gone, good dame. But what if she Has made mistake, and thread of gold Is not enough to draw our son From out the Ogre's cruel hold? Canst think of nought, your Majesty? Of nothing else? Must we stand here And powerless lift no hand to speed The rescue of our children dear?
[_King clasps hand to his head in thought, then starts forward._
I have it now! This hour I'll send Swift heralds through my wide domains, To say the knight who rescues them Shall wed the Princess for his pains.
Quick! Let us fly! I hear the sound of feet, As if some horseman were approaching nigher. 'Twould not be seemly should he meet Our royal selves so near the Witch's fire.
[_They start to run, but are met by Knight on horseback in centre of stage. He dismounts and drops to one knee._
Tis Feal the Faithful! Rise, Sir Knight, And tell us what thou doest here!
O Sire, I know your children's plight. I go to ease your royal fear.
Now if thou bringst them back to us, A thousand blessings on thy head.
Ay, half my kingdom shall be thine. The Princess Winsome thou shalt wed.
But tell us, how dost thou think to cope With the Ogre so dread and grim? What is the charm that bids thee hope Thou canst rout and vanquish him?
My faithful heart is my only charm, But my good broadsword is keen, And love for the princess nerves my arm With the strength of ten, I ween. Come weal, come woe, no knight can fail Who goes at Love's behest. Long ere one moon shall wax and wane, I shall be back from my quest. I have only to find the South Wind's flute. In the Land of Summer it lies. It can awaken the echoes mute, With answering replies. And it can summon the fairy folk Who never have said me nay. They'll come to my aid at the flute's clear call. Love _always_ can find a way.
Go, Feal the Faithful. It is well! Successful mayst thou be, And all the way that thou dost ride, Our blessings follow thee.
SCENE. _Room in Ogre's tower. Princess Winsome kneeling with arm around Dog's neck._
_Art_ thou my brother? Can it be That thou hast taken such shape? Oh turn those sad eyes not on me! There _must_ be some escape. And yet our parents think us dead. No doubt they weep this very hour, For no one ever has escaped, Ere this, the Ogre's power. Oh cruel fate! We can but die! Each moment seems a week. _Is_ there no hope? Oh, Hero dear, If thou couldst only speak! But no! Within this tower room We're captive, and despair Must settle on us. 'Tis the doom Of all dragged up yon winding stair.
