. . . the hill—one fine evening—she met
A stranger, the strangest maid ever saw yet:
From his crown to his heels he was clad all in red,
And his hair like a flame on his shoulders was shed;
Not a word spake he, but clutching her hand,
Led her off through the darkness to Shadowland.
What befell her there no mortal can tell,
But it must have been things indescribable,
For when she returned, at last, alone,
[Pg 45] Her beauty was dead, and her youth was gone.
They gather'd about her: she shook her head
—She had been through Hell—that was all she said
In answer to whens, and hows, and whys;
So they took her word, for she never told lies.
And now, they say, when the sun goes down
This queer little woman, all shrivell'd and brown
Turns into a beautiful lass, once more,
With gold-stranded hair and soft eyes of yore,
And out of the hills in the stills and the gloams
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