“Nor can I altogether, Humphrey.  Why should I, seeing that I am no more than woman, as you are no more than man?  I would always have you remember, Humphrey, that I am no spirit or sorceress, but just a woman—­like her you lost.”

I looked at her doubtfully and answered: 

“Women do not sleep for two hundred thousand years.  Women do not take dream journeys to the stars.  Women do not make the dead past live again before the watcher’s eyes.  Their hair does not glimmer in the dusk nor do their bodies gleam, nor have they such strength of soul or eyes so wonderful, or loveliness so great.”

These words appeared to distress her who, as it seemed to me, was above all things anxious to prove herself woman and no more.

“All these qualities are nothing, Humphrey,” she cried.  “As for the beauty, such as it is, it comes to me with my blood, and with it the glitter of my hair which is the heritage of those who for generations have drunk of the Life-water.  My mother was lovelier than I, as was her mother, or so I have heard, since only the fairest were the wives of the Kings of the Children of Wisdom.  For the rest, such arts as I have spring not from magic, but from knowledge which your people will acquire in days to come, that is, if Oro spares them.  Surely you above all should know that I am only woman,” she added very slowly and searching my face with her eyes.

“Why, Yva?  During the little while that we have been together I have seen much which makes me doubt.  Even Bickley the sceptic doubts also.”

“I will tell you, though I am not sure that you will believe me.”  She glanced about her as though she were frightened lest someone should overhear her words or read her thoughts.  Then she stretched out her hands and drawing my head towards her, put her lips to my ear and whispered: 

“Because once you saw me die, as women often die—­giving life for life.”

“I saw you die?” I gasped.

She nodded, then continued to whisper in my ear, not in her own voice, but another’s: 

“Go where you seem called to go, far away.  Oh! the wonderful place in which you will find me, not knowing that you have found me.  Good-bye for a little while; only for a little while, my own, my own!”

I knew the voice as I knew the words, and knowing, I think that I should have fallen to the ground, had she not supported me with her strong arms.

“Who told you?” I stammered.  “Was it Bickley or Bastin?  They knew, though neither of them heard those holy words.”

“Not Bickley nor Bastin,” she answered, shaking her head, “no, nor you yourself, awake or sleeping, though once, by the lake yonder, you said to me that when a certain one lay dying, she bade you seek her elsewhere, for certainly you would find her.  Humphrey, I cannot say who told me those words because I do not know.  I think they are a memory, Humphrey!”

“That would mean that you, Yva, are the same as one who was—­ not called Yva.”