And of a dull reproach to fate.

But let's not tarry more: 'tis late,

And fair Ludmila is by tender

And skillful hands by now undressed.

Robed in a snowy shift that renders

Her charms more charming still, to rest

She lays her down. The three maids, sighing,

Back out with bows, the door is shut.

What does our captive?-Lies there, but

Shakes leaf-like, and, sleep from her flying,

Feels chilled and dares not breathe. Her gaze

Bedimmed by fear, she moveless stays

And tense, with all her being trying

To penetrate the voiceless gloom,

The numbing stillness of the room;

Her heart throbs wildly, fitfully,

An agitated, endless thru nming....

The silence seems to whisper; she

Hears someone to her bedside coming

And in her pillows hides, and oh!-

The horror of it-footsteps.... No!

It cannot be, she must be dreaming.

The door swings open; there's a flare

Of light, and silent, pair by pair,

file of Moors, their sabres gleaming,

Steps in with even, measured stride.

A look most grave and solemn wearing,

On downy pillows they are bearing

A silver beard. Puffed up with pride,

A pose assuming grand and stately,

Behind it marches in sedately

A hunchbacked dwarf, chin high. It is

To him the beard belongs. On his

Clean-shaven pate a tall, close-fitting