At the falling of the night it reached far up towards the turret, a great sharp-pointed vine, with only here and there a miserable leaf on it.
'I am sorry I threw it out,' said the maiden.

'It is the Thorn of the World, and the people who pass will think it defaces my castle.' But when it was dark again the air was full of music.

The maiden went to the window, for she could not sleep, and she called out, asking who it was that sang.

Then a sweet, low voice came up to her from the moat.

'I am the Thorn,' it said, 'I sing in the dark, for I am growing.'-- 'Sing on, Thorn,' said she, 'and grow if you will.' But in the morning when she awoke, her window was darkened, for the Thorn had grown to be a mighty tree, and its topmost shoots were black against the sky.