could not tell.

I fell asleep; and when I awoke no lute was sounding. I was alone; and
the arbour a little house of gloom on the borders of evening. I caught
up yet one more handful of cherries, and stumbled out, heavy and dim,
into a pale-green firmanent of buds and glow-worms, to seek the poor
Rosinante I had so heedlessly deserted.

But I was gone but a little way when I was brought suddenly to a
standstill by another sound that in the hush of the garden, in the
bright languor after sleep, went to my heart: it was as if a child
were crying.

I pushed through a thick and aromatic clump of myrtles, and peering
between the narrow leaves, perceived the cold, bright face of a little
marble god beneath willows; and, seated upon a starry bank near by,
one whom by the serpentry of her hair and the shadow of her lips I
knew to be Anthea.

"Why are you weeping?" I said.

"I was imitating a little brook," she said.

"It is late; the bat is up; yet you are alone," I said.

"Pan will protect me," she said.

"And nought else?"

She turned her face away. "None," she said. "I live among shadows.