heard her not, for the air refused to bring the words she said.

"She is false!" whispered the air. "I alone am true to thee."

But the mountain believed her not. Day after day he reared his massive
head aloft and turned his honest face to the receding sea and begged her
to return; day after day the sea threw up her snowy arms and uttered the
wildest lamentations, but the mountain heard her not; and day by day the
sea receded farther and farther from the mountain's base. Where she once
had spread her fair surface appeared fertile plains and verdant groves all
peopled with living things, whose voices the air brought to the mountain's
ears in the hope that they might distract the mountain from his mourning.

But the mountain would not be comforted; he lifted his sturdy head aloft,
and his sorrowing face was turned ever toward the fleeting object of his
love. Hills, valleys, forests, plains, and other mountains separated them
now, but over and beyond them all he could see was her fair face lifted
pleadingly toward him, while her white arms tossed wildly to and fro. But
he did not know what words she said, for the envious air would not bear
her messages to him.

Then many ages came and went, until now the sea was far distant, so very
distant that the mountain could not behold her,--nay, had he been ten
thousand times as lofty he could not have seen her, she was so far away.
But still, as of old, the mountain stood with his majestic head high in
the sky, and his face turned whither he had seen her fading like a dream
away.

"Comeback, comeback, O my beloved!" he cried and cried.