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