for the night beside the comfortable fire. Even the witch’s withered heart was touched by her forlorn plight, and she bade her welcome, and gave her such coarse fare as her hut afforded.
While Florimel, a little refreshed by her rude meal and the warm fire, sat down to arrange her garments, torn by the rough branches and wet with the night dews, the door opened, and an uncouth clown appeared, whose face looked out from under a tangled covert of unkempt hair and matted beard, as a wild beast looks from his lair.
This was the witch’s son, whom, in spite of his ill looks, she loved, as the tiger loves her young, as the bear the unlicked cubs which nature teaches her to fight for.
The uncouth monster glared on Florimel as one whose eyes had never before seen a piece of gentle womanhood. She, uneasy and frightened at his gaze, asked for a place where she might rest from the day’s fatigues. Then the witch showed her a pile of soft skins, on which she sank exhausted, and in spite of fears and misgivings for her safety, she was soon fast shrouded in a dreamless sleep.
When day dawned she found the morning repast spread beside her. There were tender birds cooked in the hot embers, purple grapes, and luscious berries gathered in the forest. All these the churlish-looking youth had been out
