Lane dreamed once that it was a gray winter afternoon; dark lowering clouds hung over the drab-colored hills, and a chill north wind scurried over the bare meadows, sending the dead leaves rustling over the heath and moaning through the leafless oaks.  What a sad day it was, he thought, as he faced the biting wind:  sad as was his life and a fitting one for the deed on which he had determined!  Long since he had left the city and was on the country road.  He ascended a steep hill.  From its highest point he looked back toward the city he was leaving forever.  Faint it lay in the distance, only a few of its white spires shining out dimly from the purple haze.

What was that dark shadow?  Far down the winding road he discerned an object moving slowly up the hill.  Closer he looked, and trembled.  An old woman with flowing black robes was laboriously climbing the hill.  Whirling, he placed his hand on his breast, firmly grasped something there, and then strode onward.  Soon he glanced over his shoulder.  Yes, there she came, hobbling over the crest, her bent form and long crooked staff clearly silhouetted against the gray background.  She raised the long staff and pointed it at him.

Now it seemed the day was waning; deep shadows lay in the valleys, and night already enveloped the forest.  Through rents in the broken clouds a few pale stars twinkled fitfully.  Soon dark cloud curtains scurried across these spaces shutting out the light.

He plunged into the forest.  His footsteps made no sound on the soft moss as he glided through wooded aisles and under giant trees.  Once well into the deep woods, he turned to look behind him.  He saw a shadow, blacker than the forest-gloom, stealthily slipping from tree to tree.  He looked no more.  For hours he traveled on and on, never stopping, never looking backward, never listening, intent only on placing a great distance between him and his pursuer.

He came upon a swamp where his feet sank in the soft earth, and through all the night, with tireless strength and fateful resolve, he toiled into this dreamy waste of woods and waters, until at length a huge black rock loomed up in his way.  He ascended to its summit and looked beyond.

It seemed now that he had reached his destination.  Wood spirits and phantoms of night would mourn over him, but they would keep his secret.  He peered across a shining lake, and tried to pierce the gloom.  No living thing moved before his vision.  Silver rippling waves shimmered under that starlit sky; tall weird pines waved gently in the night breeze; slender cedars, resembling spectres, reared their heads toward the blue-black vault of heaven.  He listened intently.  There was a faint rustling of the few leaves left upon the oaks.  The strange voices that had always haunted him, the murmuring of river waters, or whispering of maidens, or muttering of women were now clear.

Suddenly two white forms came gliding across the waters.  The face of one was that of a young girl.  Golden hair clustered round the face and over the fair brow.  The lips smiled with mournful sweetness.  The other form seemed instinct with life.  The face was that of a living, breathing girl, soulful, passionate, her arms outstretched, her eyes shining with a strange hopeful light.