The Legend of the Bleeding-heart | Page 3

day when she had
returned to her gown of tow and was no longer a haughty court lady,
but only Olga, the Flax-spinner's maiden, she repined at her lot.
Frowning, she carried the water from the spring. Frowning, she
gathered the cresses and plucked the woodland fruit. And then she sat
all day by the spring, refusing to spread the linen on the grass to bleach.
She was discontented with the old life of toil, and pouted crossly
because duties called her when she wanted to do nothing but sit idly
dreaming of the gay court scenes in which she had taken a bright brief
part. The old Flax-spinner's fingers trembled as she spun, when she saw

the frowns, for she had given of her heart's blood to buy happiness for
this maiden she loved, and well she knew there can be no happiness
where frowns abide. She felt that her years of sacrifice had been in vain,
but when the Oak wagged his head she called back waveringly, "My
little Olga will not be ungrateful and forgetful!"
That night outside the castle gate, Olga paused. She had forgotten the
charm. The day's discontent had darkened her memory as storm-clouds
darken the sky. But she grasped her necklace imperiously.
"Deck me at once!" she cried in a haughty tone. "Clothe me more
beautifully than mortal maid was ever clad before, so that I may find
favour in the Prince's sight and become the bride of the castle! I would
that I were done for ever with the spindle and the distaff!"
But the moon went under a cloud and the wind began to moan around
the turrets. The black night hawks in the forest flapped their wings
warningly, and the black bats flitted low around her head.
"Obey me at once!" she cried angrily, stamping her foot and jerking at
the necklace. But the string broke, and the beads went rolling away in
the darkness in every direction and were lost--all but one, which she
held clasped in her hand.
Then Olga wept at the castle gate; wept outside in the night and the
darkness, in her peasant's garb of tow. But after awhile through her
sobbing, stole the answering sob of the night wind.
"Hush-sh!" it seemed to say. "Sh-sh! Never a heart can come to harm,
if the lips but speak the old dame's charm."
The voice of the night wind sounded so much like the voice of the old
Flax-spinner, that Olga was startled and looked around wonderingly.
Then suddenly she seemed to see the thatched cottage and the bent
form of the lonely old woman at the wheel. All the years in which the
good dame had befriended her seemed to rise up in a row, and out of
each one called a thousand kindnesses as with one voice: "How canst
thou forget us, Olga? We were done for love's sweet sake, and that

alone!"
Then was Olga sorry and ashamed that she had been so proud and
forgetful, and she wept again. The tears seemed to clear her vision, for
now she saw plainly that through no power of her own could she wrest
strange favours from fortune. Only the power of the old charm could
make them hers. She remembered it then, and holding fast the one bead
in her hand, she repeated humbly:
"For love's sweet sake, in my hour of need, Blossom and deck me, little
seed."
Lo, as the words left her lips, the moon shone out from behind the
clouds above the dark forest. There was a fragrance of lilies all about,
and a gossamer gown floated around her, whiter than the whiteness of
the fairest lily. It was fine like the finest lace the frost-elves weave, and
softer than the softest ermine of the snow. On her long golden hair
gleamed a coronet of pearls.
So beautiful, so dazzling was she as she entered the castle door, that the
Prince came down to meet her, and kneeling, kissed her hand and
claimed her as his bride. Then came the bishop in his mitre, and led her
to the throne, and before them all the Flax-spinner's maiden was
married to the Prince, and made the Princess Olga.
Then until the seven days and seven nights were done, the revels lasted
in the castle. And in the merriment the old Flax-spinner was again
forgotten. Her kindness of the past, her loneliness in the present had no
part in the thoughts of the Princess Olga.
All night the old Oak, tapping on the thatch, called down, "Thou'rt
forgotten! Thou'rt forgotten!"
But the beads that had rolled away in the darkness, buried themselves
in the earth, and took root, and sprang up, as the old woman knew they
would do. There at the castle gate