And then he clutched her foot, and clung, and climbed; and bending down, she drew him up to her, all wet, and clasped him in the swing of boughs.

I took a long breath then.  An orange gleam of sunlight had flamed in among the shadows and fell round those two where they swung over the dark water, with lips close together and spirits lost in one another’s, and in their eyes such drowning ecstasy!  And then they kissed!  All round me pool, and leaves, and air seemed suddenly to swirl and melt—­I could see nothing plain! . . .  What time passed—­I do not know—­before their faces slowly again became visible!  His face the sober boy’s—­was turned away from her, and he was listening; for above the whispering of leaves a sound of weeping came from over the hill.  It was to that he listened.

And even as I looked he slid down from out of her arms; back into the pool, and began struggling to gain the edge.  What grief and longing in her wild face then!  But she did not wail.  She did not try to pull him back; that elfish heart of dignity could reach out to what was coming, it could not drag at what was gone.  Unmoving as the boughs and water, she watched him abandon her.

Slowly the struggling boy gained land, and lay there, breathless.  And still that sound of lonely weeping came from over the hill.

Listening, but looking at those wild, mourning eyes that never moved from him, he lay.  Once he turned back toward the water, but fire had died within him; his hands dropped, nerveless—­his young face was all bewilderment.

And the quiet darkness of the pool waited, and the trees, and those lost eyes of hers, and my heart.  And ever from over the hill came the little fair maiden’s lonely weeping.

Then, slowly dragging his feet, stumbling, half-blinded, turning and turning to look back, the boy groped his way out through the trees toward that sound; and, as he went, that dark spirit-elf, abandoned, clasping her own lithe body with her arms, never moved her gaze from him.

I, too, crept away, and when I was safe outside in the pale evening sunlight, peered back into the dell.  There under the dark trees she was no longer, but round and round that cage of passion, fluttering and wailing through the leaves, over the black water, was the magpie, flighting on its twilight wings.

I turned and ran and ran till I came over the hill and saw the boy and the little fair, sober maiden sitting together once more on the open slope, under the high blue heaven.  She was nestling her tear-stained face against his shoulder and speaking already of indifferent things.  And he—­he was holding her with his arm and watching over her with eyes that seemed to see something else.

And so I lay, hearing their sober talk and gazing at their sober little figures, till I awoke and knew I had dreamed all that little allegory of sacred and profane love, and from it had returned to reason, knowing no more than ever which was which. 1912.