Oceaxe, without pausing, strolled lightly and lazily up to the outermost shadows of the tree, some distance from the couch.

“We have met with an uplift,” she remarked carelessly, looking toward the youth.

He eyed her, but said nothing.

“How is your plant man getting on?” Her tone was artificial but extremely beautiful.  While waiting for an answer, she sat down on the ground, her legs gracefully thrust under her body, and pulled down the skirt of her robe.  Maskull remained standing just behind her, with crossed arms.

There was silence for a minute.

“Why don’t you answer your mistress, Sature?” said the boy on the couch, in a calm, treble voice.

The man addressed did not alter his expression, but replied in a strangled tone, “I am getting on very well, Oceaxe.  There are already buds on my feet.  Tomorrow I hope to take root.”

Maskull felt a rising storm inside him.  He was perfectly aware that although these words were uttered by Sature, they were being dictated by the boy.

“What he says is quite true,” remarked the latter.  “Tomorrow roots will reach the ground, and in a few days they ought to be well established.  Then I shall set to work to convert his arms into branches, and his fingers into leaves.  It will take longer to transform his head into a crown, but still I hope—­in fact I can almost promise that within a month you and I, Oceaxe, will be plucking and enjoying fruit from this new and remarkable tree.”

“I love these natural experiments,” he concluded, putting out his hand for another plum.  “They thrill me.”

“This must be a joke,” said Maskull, taking a step forward.

The youth looked at him serenely.  He made no reply, but Maskull felt as if he were being thrust backward by an iron hand on his throat.

“The morning’s work is now concluded, Sature.  Come here again after Blodsombre.  After tonight you will remain here permanently, I expect, so you had better set to work to clear a patch of ground for your roots.  Never forget—­however fresh and charming these plants appear to you now, in the future they will be your deadliest rivals and enemies.  Now you may go.”

The man limped painfully away, across the isthmus, out of sight.  Oceaxe yawned.

Maskull pushed his way forward, as if against a wall.  “Are you joking, or are you a devil?”

“I am Crimtyphon.  I never joke.  For that epithet of yours, I will devise a new punishment for you.”

The duel of wills commenced without ceremony.  Oceaxe got up, stretched her beautiful limbs, smiled, and prepared herself to witness the struggle between her old lover and her new.  Crimtyphon smiled too; he reached out his hand for more fruit, but did not eat it.  Maskull’s self-control broke down and he dashed at the boy, choking with red fury—­his beard wagged and his face was crimson.  When he