of our two enchanting shepherdesses on the other side of the stream, who were watching his movements by stealth.  He blushed far redder than he had ever done before, and hesitated whether he should retreat or advance.  To retreat, he felt, would look rather awkward:  at the same time, he thought it would be too great a price to pay for his honour to jump into the river.  And, besides, even if he got over to the other side, would he have courage to speak to them?  Altogether, I think he acted more wisely, though less chivalrously, than some might have done in his place.  He laid down his gun, and seated himself on the bank, and looked at the sheep as they fed on the opposite side.  At twenty years of age, love travels at an amazing pace; and Hector felt that he was already over head and ears with one of the fair shepherdesses.  He did not stop to examine which of them it was; it was of no consequence—­sufficient for him that he knew he was in love—­gone—­captivated.  If he had been twenty years older, he would perhaps have admired them both:  it would have been less romantic, but decidedly more wise.

It is not to be denied that Amaranthe and Daphne blushed a little, too, at this sort of half meeting with Hector.  They hung down their heads in the most captivating manner, and continued silent for some time.  But at last Amaranthe, more lively than her sister, recommenced her chatter.  “Look, Bribri,” she said—­“Daphne I mean—­he is one of the silvan deities, or perhaps Narcissus looking at himself in the water.”

“Rather say, looking at you,” replied Daphne, with a blush.

“’Tis Pan hiding himself in the oziers till you are metamorphosed into a flute, dear Daphne.”

“Not so, fair sister,” replied Daphne; “’tis Endymion in pursuit of the shepherdess Amaranthe.”

“At his present pace, the pursuit will last some time.  If he weren’t quite so rustic, he would be a captivating shepherd, with his long brown ringlets.  He has not moved for an hour.  What if he has taken root like a hamadryad?”

“Poor fellow!” said Daphne, in the simplest tone in the world; “he looks very dull all by himself.”

“He must come over to us—­that’s very plain.  We will give him a crook and a bouquet of flowers.”

“Oh, just the thing!” exclaimed the innocent Daphne.  “We need a shepherd:  and yet, no, no”—­she added, for she was a little jealous of her sister—­“’tis a lucky thing there is river between us.”

“I hope he will find a bridge per passa lou riou d’amor.”

Now, just at that moment Hector’s mind was set on passing the river of Love.  In casting his eyes all round in search of a passage, he perceived an old willow half thrown across the stream.  With a little courage and activity, it was a graceful and poetical bridge.  Hector resolved to try it.  He rose and went right onward towards the tree; but, when he arrived, he couldn’t help reflecting that, at that season, the river was immensely deep.