As I have said already, another air than that of night was abroad in the green-grey shadows of the woods.  Yet between the lofty and heavy-hooded pines scarce a beam of dawn pierced downward.

Wider swept the avenue, but ever dusky and utterly silent.  Deeper moss couched here; unfallen moondrops glistened; mistletoe palely sprouted from the gnarled boughs.  Nor could I discern, though I searched close enough, elder or ash tree or bitter rue.  We journeyed softly on till I lost all count of time, lost, too, all guidance; for as a flower falls had vanished Mustardseed.

Far away and ever increasing in volume I heard the trembling crash of some great water falling.  What narrow isles of sky were visible between the branches lay sunless and still.  Yet already, on a mantled pool we journeyed softly by, the waterlily was unfolding, the swan afloat in beauty.

In a dim, still light we at last slowly descended out of the darker glade into a garden of grey terraces and flowerless walks.  Even Rosinante seemed perturbed by the stillness and solitude of this wild garden.  She trod with cautious foot and peering eye the green, rainworn paths, that led us down presently to where beneath the vault of its trees a river flowed.

Surely I could not be mistaken that here a voice was singing as if out of the black water-deeps, so clear and hollow were the notes.  I burst through the knotted stalks of the ivy, and stooping like some poor travesty of Narcissus, with shaded face pierced down deep—­deep into eyes not my own, but violet and unendurable and strange—­eyes of the living water-sprite drawing my wits from me, stilling my heart, till I was very near plunging into that crystal oblivion, to be fishes evermore.

But my fingers still grasped my friend’s kind elf-locks, and her goose-nose brooded beside mine upon that water of undivulged delight.  Out of the restless silence of the stream floated this long-drawn singing: 

    Pilgrim forget; in this dark tide
    Sinks the salt tear to peace at last;
    Here undeluding dreams abide,
        All sorrow past.

    Nods the wild ivy on her stem;
    The voiceless bird broods on the bough;
    The silence and the song of them
        Untroubled now.

    Free that poor captive’s flutterings,
    That struggles in thy tired eyes,
    Solace its discontented wings,
        Quiet its cries!

    Knells now the dewdrop to its fall,
    The sad wind sleeps no more to rove;
    Rest, for my arms ambrosial
        Ache for thy love!

I cannot think how one so meekened with hunger as I, resisted that water-troubled hair, eyes that yet haunt me, that heart-alluring voice.

“No, no,” I said faintly, and the words of Anthea came unbidden to mind, “to sleep—­oh! who would forget?  You plead merely with some old dream of me—­not all me, you know.  Gold is but witchcraft.  And as for sorrow—­spread me a magical table in this nettle-garden, I’ll leave all melancholy!”