From this time on he made as though he were deaf when Marguerite railed at him, and he took her no more to his breast when he came back from the sea. And Marguerite grieved, for she loved him well in her woman's way, and longed for his caresses. The sight of his pale set face, and his sombre eyes--they were like the eyes of a dog in pain, when the hand he loves best has struck him--stung her to fresh taunts, and there came a day when he answered her back in the same way, and all but struck her. Ah! a woman's tongue can do rare mischief! His mother had never heard an ugly word from him.
One eve I met Marguerite on the shore. She was sobbing bitterly, for she had just come out of a cave in the rocks, where dwelt a Witch who could read the future.
I had taken the form of a slim, dark, serious looking lad, and laying a gentle hand upon her arm, 'What ails you, Madame Marguerite?' I said. She glanced at me piteously, as one who seeks a refuge and knows not where to turn, and wrung her hands.
[Illustration: "What ails you, Madame Marguerite?"]
'I have lost my Etienne's heart for ever, for ever,' she wailed, 'unless I can find the White Stone of Happiness, which a mermaid throws from the depths of the sea once in a thousand years. I may search for months, and never find it; and Etienne holds aloof from me, and grows further away each day.'
Now just at her feet lay a small white stone, smooth and round as a Fairy's plaything. I picked it up and showed it to her.
'It shall be yours,' I told her gravely, 'if you give me your solemn promise to heed my words.'
'I promise!' she answered fervently, and the wind tossed her unbound hair until it floated round her shoulders like a Kelpie's mane. A seventh wave rushed up to her feet, and as she moved nearer the breakwater, I sang her this little song:
'Fairy stone of fairy spell, Marguerite, O guard it well! When thine anger doth arise Elves would rob thee of thy prize. Press it 'neath thy tongue so red, Hold it firm till wrath has sped. Smile, speak softly, and behold, Love shall warm thee as of old.'
Then I gave her the stone, and she clasped it against her bosom and sped to her home.
When Etienne returned he was in a bitter mood. Luck had been against him; he had caught no fish, and his largest net had been torn on the rocks. Marguerite set a meal before him, but he pushed it angrily away; for the broth had burned while she was with the Witch, and tasted anything but pleasant.