'
'Your story!' he cried. 'It _is_ indeed your story.'
The eyes were so close against his own that he made a movement that
was like diving into a deep and shining sea to reach them.... The
Pleiades rushed instantly past his face.... Soft filaments of golden
texture stroked his very cheeks. That slender violet wind rose into
his hair. He saw other larger winds behind it, deeply coloured....
Something made him tremble all over like a leaf in a storm. He saw,
then, the crest of the sentinel poplar tossing between him and the
earth far, far below. A mist of confusion caught him, so that he knew
not where he was.... He made an effort to remember... a violent
effort.... Some strange sense of heaviness oppressed him.... He was
leaving her.
'Quick!' he tried to cry; 'be quick! I am changing. I am drowsy with
your voice and beauty. Your eyes have touched me, and I am--falling
asleep!' His voice grew weaker as he said it.
Her answer sounded faint, and far above him:
'Give me... your... hand. Touch me. Come away with me... to... my ...
garden ... in the mountains.... We may wake together ... You are
waking now...!'
He made an effort to find her little palm. But the wind swept coldly
between his opened fingers.
'Waking!--what is it?' he cried thinly. He thought swiftly of
something vague and muddy--something dull, disordered, incomplete.
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