"Lady, 'twas from one beyond all thought wise and learned. A most holy
hermit--"

"A hermit!" says she, merry-eyed, "then, an he told thee this, needs
must he be old, and cold, and withered, and beyond the age of love,
knowing nought of women save what memory doth haunt his evil past. But
young art thou and strong, and should love come to thee--as come,
methinks, it may, hearken to no voice but the pleading of thine own
true heart. Messire," she sighed, "art very blind, methinks, for you
sing the wonders of these forest-lands, yet in thy song is never a word
of love! O blind! O blind! for I tell thee nought exists in this great
world but by love. Behold now, these sighing trees love their lord the
sun, and, through the drear winter, wait his coming with wide-stretched,
yearning arms, crying aloud to him in every shuddering blast the tale
of their great longing. And, after some while, he comes, and at his advent
they clothe themselves anew in all their beauty, and with his warm breath
thrilling through each fibre, put forth their buds, singing through
all their myriad leaves the song of their rejoicing. Something the like
of this, messire, is the love a woman beareth to a man, the which, until
he hath felt it trembling in his heart, he hath not known the joy of
living."

But Beltane answered, smiling a little as one that gloried in his
freedom:

"No woman hath ever touched my heart, yet have I lived nor found it
lonely, hitherto."

But hereupon, resting her white fingers on his arm, she leaned nearer
to him so that he felt her breath warm upon his cheek, and there stole