And as those old worshipers of Dionysus had grown intoxicated with the night and the desire of communion with the beyond, so he—­John Derringham—­cool, calculating English statesman—­felt himself being drawn into a current of emotion and enthrallment whose end could only be an ecstasy of which he did not yet dare to dream.

It was all so abnormal—­to see her here, a shadow, a tantalizing soft shadow with a new personality—­it was no wonder he rubbed his eyes and asked himself if he were awake.

“Come with me,” she whispered, bending nearer to him, “and I will show you how the wild roses grow at night.”

“I will follow you to Hades,” he said, “but I warn you I cannot see a yard beyond my nose.  You must lead me with your hand, if so ethereal a spirit possesses a hand.”

Again the silver laugh, and he saw her not, but presently she appeared from behind the tree.  She had let down her misty, mouse-colored hair, and it floated around her like a cloud.

Then she slipped a cool, soft set of fingers into his, and led him onward, with sure and certain steps, while he blundered, not knowing where to put his feet, and all the time she turned every few seconds and looked at him, and he could just distinguish the soft mystery of her eyes, while now and then, as she walked, a tendril of her floating hair flew out and caressed his face, as once before, long ago.

“There are fairy things all about us,” she said.  “Countless pink campions and buttercups, with an elf in each.  They will feel your giant feet, but they will know you are a mortal and cannot help your ways, because, you poor, blind bat, you cannot see!”

“And you?” he asked.  “Who gave you these eyes?”

“My mother,” she answered softly, “the Goddess of the Night.”

And then she drew him on rapidly and stealthily, and he saw at last, in the open space where the stars and the sinking moon gave more light, that they were approaching the broken gate, and were near the terraced garden, which now was better kept.

When they got to this barrier to their path, Halcyone paused and leaned upon it.

“Mortal,” she said, “you are wandering in a maze.  You have come thus far because I have led you, but you would have fallen if you had walked so fast alone.  Now look, and I will show you the lily-of-the-valley cups—­there are only a few there under the shelter of the gray stone arch.  Come.”

And she opened the gate, letting go of his hand as she glided beyond.

“I cannot and will not hazard a step if you leave me,” he called, and she came back and gave him again her soft fingers to hold.  So at last they reached the summer house at the end of the second terrace, where the archway was where old William kept his tools.

There were very few flowers out, but a mass of wild roses, and still some May tulips bloomed, while from the meadow beneath them came that indescribable freshness which young clover gives.