There was the wizard, wrapped in his long black mantle, and his face covered with his hands; there was the uncouth and deformed dwarf, gibbering to himself; there sat the household elf; there glowered from a gloomy rent in the wall, with glittering eyes and shining scale, the enormous dragon of the North.

An aged crone in rags, leaning on a staff, and gazing malignantly on the visitors, with bleared but fiery eyes, stood opposite the tomb of the gigantic dead.

And now the fairies themselves completed the group! But all was dumb and unutterably silent,--the silence that floats over some antique city of the desert, when, for the first time for a hundred centuries, a living foot enters its desolate remains; the silence that belongs to the dust of eld,--deep, solemn, palpable, and sinking into the heart with a leaden and death-like weight.

Even the English fairy spoke not; she held her breath, and gazing on the tomb, she saw, in rude vast characters,-- THE TEUTON.
"_We_ are all that remain of his religion!" said the prince, as they turned from the dread temple..