are full of blood, and plants are tissued from green-gold, glistening
sap. Substance and solidity were shadows that the morning cast round
itself to make itself tangible: as she herself was a shadow, cast by
that fragment of sunshine, her soul, over its inefficiency.

She remembered to have seen the bats flying low over a burnished pool at
sunset, and the web of their wings had burned in scarlet flickers, as
they stretched across the light. Winged momentarily on bits of tissued
flame, threaded with blood, the bats had flickered a secret to her.

Now the cliffs were like wings uplifted, and the morning was coming
dimly through them. She felt the wings of all the world upraised against
the morning in a flashing, multitudinous flight. The world itself was
flying. Sunlight poured on the large round world till she fancied it a
heavy bee humming on its iridescent atmosphere across a vast air
of sunshine.

She lay and rode the fine journey. Sunlight liquid in the water made the
waves heavy, golden, and rich with a velvety coolness like cowslips. Her
feet fluttered in the shadowy underwater. Her breast came out bright as
the breast of a white bird.

Where was Siegmund? she wondered. He also was somewhere among the sea
and the sunshine, white and playing like a bird, shining like a vivid,
restless speck of sunlight. She struck the water, smiling, feeling along
with him. They two were the owners of this morning, as a pair of wild,
large birds inhabiting an empty sea.

Siegmund had found a white cave welling with green water, brilliant and
full of life as mounting sap. The white rock glimmered through the