Stories from the Ballads | Page 5

was there herself under the greenwood gay. The tall trees bowed, the little trees nodded to her. The flowers threw their sweetest scents after her as she passed along; the little birds sang their gladdest that she might hear. How fair and green and cool it was in the wood of Elmond!
On a sudden, Margaret sat upright in the doorway of her bower. She dreamed no more. The sound of the hunting-horn rang in her ear. It was blown in Elmond wood.
Then down on her lap slipped the silken seam, down to her feet the needle. May Margaret was up and away to the greenwood.
Down by the hazel bushes she hastened, nor noticed that the evening shadows fell; on past the birch groves she ran, nor noticed that the dew fell fast.
No one did May Margaret meet until she reached a white-thorn tree. There, up from the grass on which he lay, sprang Hynde Etin.
'What do ye seek in the wood, May Margaret?' said he. 'Is it flowers, or is it for dew ye seek this bonny night of May?'
But Margaret did not care to answer. She only shook her head.
Then said Hynde Etin, 'I am forester of Elmond wood, nor should ye enter it without my leave.'
'Nay now,' cried the lady Margaret, 'leave will I ask of no man, for my father is earl of all this land.'
'Your father may be earl of all the land, May Margaret, yet shall ye die, because ye will not ask my leave to come to Elmond wood.' And he seized her fast and tied her to a tree by her long, yellow locks.
Yet did Hynde Etin not kill the maiden, but this is what he did.
He pulled up by the root the tallest tree he could see, and in the hollow he dug a deep deep cave, and into the cave he thrust May Margaret.
'Now will ye wander no more in my woods!' cried Hynde Etin. 'Here shall ye stay, or home shall ye come with me to be my wife.'
'Nay, here will I rather stay!' cried May Margaret, 'for my father will seek for me and will find me here.'
But the cave was dark and cold, and the earl sought yet did not find his daughter.
No bed was there in the cave for May Margaret, no bed save the rough earth, no pillow save a stone.
Poor May Margaret! She did not like the dark or the cold. Ere many days had passed away, she thought it would be better to live with Hynde Etin than to stay longer alone in so dismal a cave.
'Take me out, take me out!' then cried May Margaret.
Hynde Etin heard the maiden's call and he came and took her out of the cave. Deep into the greenwood he carried her, where his own home had been built, and there he made May Margaret, the earl's daughter, his wife.
For twelve long years Margaret lived in the greenwood. And Hynde Etin was kind to her and she grew to love him well.
Seven little sons had Margaret, and happy and gay was their life in their woodland home. Yet oft did Margaret grieve that her little wee sons had never been taken to holy church. She wished that the priest might christen them there.
Now one day Hynde Etin slung his bow across his shoulder, placed a sheath of arrows in his belt, and was up and away to the hunt. With him he took his eldest wee son.
Under the gay greenwood they paced, Hynde Etin and his eldest son, and the thrush sang to them his morning song. Upward over the hills they climbed, and they heard the chimes of church bells clear.
Then the little wee son said to his father, 'An ye would not be angry with me, father, there is somewhat I would ask.'
'Ask what ye will, my bonny wee boy,' said Hynde Etin, 'for never will I be cross with you.'
'My mother ofttimes weeps, father. Why is it that she sobs so bitterly?'
'Your mother weeps, my little wee son, for sore she longs to see her own kin. Twelve long years is it and more since last she saw them, or heard the church bells ring.
'An earl's daughter was your mother dear, and if I had not stolen her away one bonny night in May she might have wedded a knight of high degree.
'The forester of Elmond wood was I, yet as I saw her standing by the white-thorn tree I loved her well. And ere many days had gone by thy mother loved me too, and I carried her away to our greenwood home.
'Dear to your mother are her seven little sons, dear to her, too, am I. Yet oft will the tears run down her cheek as she dreams of her old home and