Haita was entranced.  Rising, he knelt before her in adoration, and she laid her hand upon his head.

“Come,” she said in a voice that had the music of all the bells of his flock—­“come, thou art not to worship me, who am no goddess, but if thou art truthful and dutiful I will abide with thee.”

Haita seized her hand, and stammering his joy and gratitude arose, and hand in hand they stood and smiled into each other’s eyes.  He gazed on her with reverence and rapture.  He said:  “I pray thee, lovely maid, tell me thy name and whence and why thou comest.”

At this she laid a warning finger on her lip and began to withdraw.  Her beauty underwent a visible alteration that made him shudder, he knew not why, for still she was beautiful.  The landscape was darkened by a giant shadow sweeping across the valley with the speed of a vulture.  In the obscurity the maiden’s figure grew dim and indistinct and her voice seemed to come from a distance, as she said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach:  “Presumptuous and ungrateful youth! must I then so soon leave thee?  Would nothing do but thou must at once break the eternal compact?”

Inexpressibly grieved, Haita fell upon his knees and implored her to remain—­rose and sought her in the deepening darkness—­ran in circles, calling to her aloud, but all in vain.  She was no longer visible, but out of the gloom he heard her voice saying:  “Nay, thou shalt not have me by seeking.  Go to thy duty, faithless shepherd, or we shall never meet again.”

Night had fallen; the wolves were howling in the hills and the terrified sheep crowding about Haita’s feet.  In the demands of the hour he forgot his disappointment, drove his sheep to the fold and repairing to the place of worship poured out his heart in gratitude to Hastur for permitting him to save his flock, then retired to his cave and slept.

When Haita awoke the sun was high and shone in at the cave, illuminating it with a great glory.  And there, beside him, sat the maiden.  She smiled upon him with a smile that seemed the visible music of his pipe of reeds.  He dared not speak, fearing to offend her as before, for he knew not what he could venture to say.

“Because,” she said, “thou didst thy duty by the flock, and didst not forget to thank Hastur for staying the wolves of the night, I am come to thee again.  Wilt thou have me for a companion?”

“Who would not have thee forever?” replied Haita.  “Oh! never again leave me until—­until I—­change and become silent and motionless.”

Haita had no word for death.

“I wish, indeed,” he continued, “that thou wert of my own sex, that we might wrestle and run races and so never tire of being together.”

At these words the maiden arose and passed out of the cave, and Haita, springing from his couch of fragrant boughs to overtake and detain her, observed to his astonishment that the rain was falling and the stream in the middle of the valley had come out of its banks.  The sheep were bleating in terror, for the rising waters had invaded their fold.  And there was danger for the unknown cities of the distant plain.