In the heavy-laden boughs dim lanterns burned.  There, indeed, when we dipped into the deeper umbrage of some loftier tree, I espied the pattering hosts—­creatures my Dianeme might have threaded for a bangle, yet breeched and armed and fiercely martial.

Down, too, in a watery dell of harts-tongue, around the root of a swelling fungus, a lovely company floated of an insubstantiality subtile as taper-smoke, and of a beauty as remote as the babes in children’s eyes.

We passed unheeded.  Four bearded hoofs rose and fell upon the moss with all the circumspection snorting Rosinante could compass.  But one might as well go snaring moonbeams as dream to crush such airy beings.  Ever and again a gossamer company would soar like a spider on his magic thread, and float with a whisper of remotest music past my ear; or some bolder pigmy, out of the leaves we brushed in passing, skip suddenly across the rusty amphitheatre of my saddle into the further covert.

So we wandered on, baffled and confused, through a hundred pathless glens and dells till already gold had begun to dim the swelling moon’s bright silver, and by the freshness and added sweetness of the air it seemed dawn must be near, when, on a sudden, a harsh, preposterous voice broke on my ear, and such a see-saw peal of laughter as I have never tittered in sheer fellowship with before, or since.  We stood listening, and the voice broke out again.

“Tittany—­nay, Tittany, you’ll crack my sides with laughing.  Have again at you! love your master and you’ll wax nimble.  Bottom will learn you all.  Trust Time and Bottom; though in sooth your weeny Majesty is something less than natural.  Drive thy straw deeper, Mounsieur Mustardseed! there squats a pestilent sweet notion in that chamber could spellican but set him capering.  Prithee your mousemilk hand on this smooth brow, mistress!  Your nectar throbbeth like a blacksmith’s anvil.  Master Moth, draw you these bristling lashes down, they mirk the stars and call yon nothing Quince to mind—­a vain, official knave, in and out, to and fro, play or pleasure; and old Sam Snout, the wanton!  Lad’s days and all—­’twas life, Tittany; and I was ever foremost.  They’d bob and crook to me like spaniels at a trencher.  Mine was the prettiest conceit, this way, that way, past all unravelling till envy stretched mine ears.  Now I’m old dreams.  Gone all men’s joy, your worships, since Bully Bottom took to moonshine.  Where floats your babe’s-hand now, Dame Lovepip?”

There he lolled, immortal Bottom, propped on a bed of asphodel and moly that seemed to curd the moonshine; and at his side, Titania slim and scarlet, and shimmering like a bride-cake.  The sky was dark above the tapering trees, but here in the secret woods light seemed to cling in flake and scarf.  And it so chanced as our two noses leaned forward into his retreat that Bottom’s head lolled back upon its pillow, and his bright, simple eyes stared deep into our own.