Flemish Legend Sir Halewyn by Charles de Coster Chapter 28

The riding of the maid Magtelt

Singing and winding her horn, rides the noble damosel.

And she is beautiful with a beauty from heaven; fresh and rosy are her cheeks.

And straight she carries her crown.

And her little hand holds fast beneath her keirle the good sword of Roel the Lion.

And wide open are her fearless eyes, searching the forest for Sir Halewyn.

And she listens for the sound of his horse.

But she hears nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers.

And she sees nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees.

What is it makes the flame glow in her clear brown eyes? It is her high courage.

Why does she carry so straight her head and her crown? Because of the great strength in her heart.

What is it so swells her breast? The cruel thought of Anne-Mie, and her brother’s shame and the great crimes of Sir Halewyn.

And ceaselessly she looks to see if he be not coming, and if she can hear nothing of the sound of his horse.

But she sees nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees.

And she hears nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers.

And she sings.

Then, speaking to Schimmel, she said: “Together, good Schimmel, we are going to a lion. Canst not see him in his cavern, awaiting passers-by, and devouring poor maids?”

And Schimmel, hearing her, whinnied joyously.

“Schimmel,” said Magtelt, “thou art glad, I see, to be going to the revenge of Anne-Mie with the good sword.”

And Schimmel whinnied a second time.

And Magtelt sought Sir Halewyn everywhere as she went through the forest. And she listened well for the sound of his horse, and looked to see if he were nowhere coming.

And she saw nothing, except the air whitened with snow, and white also the long road, and white also the leafless trees.

And she heard nothing, except, in the heavy silence, the still sound of snowflakes falling quietly like feathers.

And she wound her horn.