to strike, or the breastplates of the islanders are strengthened to resist the bolt, or no tropical heat is there to create and launch it, or nothing is to be seen of it for the haziness, or else giants do not walk there.  But even where he walked, amid a society intellectually fostering sentiment, in a land bowing to see the simplicity of the mystery paraded, Alvan’s behaviour was passing heteroclite.  He needed to be the kingly fellow he was, crowned by another kingly fellow—­the lord of hearts—­to impose it uninterruptedly.  ‘She is mine; I have won her this night!’ his bearing said; and Clotilde’s acquiesced; and the worthy couple following them had to exhibit a copy of the same, much wondering.  Partly by habit, and of his natural astuteness, Alvan peremptorily usurped a lead that once taken could not easily be challenged, and would roll him on a good tideway strong in his own passion and his lady’s up against the last defences—­ her parents.  A difficulty with them was foreseen.  What is a difficulty! —­a gate in the hunting-field:  an opponent on a platform:  a knot beneath a sword:  the dam to waters that draw from the heavens.  Not desiring it in this case—­it would have been to love the difficulty better than the woman—­he still enjoyed the bracing prospect of a resistance, if only because it was a portion of the dowry she brought him.  Good soldiers (who have won their grades) are often of a peaceful temper and would not raise an invocation to war, but a view of the enemy sets their pugnacious forces in motion, the bugle fills their veins with electrical fire, till they are as racers on the race-course.—­His inmost hearty devil was glad of a combat that pertained to his possession of her, for battle gives the savour of the passion to win, and victory dignifies a prize:  he was, however, resolved to have it, if possible, according to the regular arrangement of such encounters, formal, without snatchings, without rash violence; a victory won by personal ascendancy, reasoning eloquence.

He laughed to hear her say, in answer to a question as to her present feelings:  ‘I feel that I am carried away by a centaur!’ The comparison had been used or implied to him before.

‘No!’ said he, responding to a host of memories, to shake them off, ’no more of the quadruped man!  You tempt him—­may I tell you that?  Why, now, this moment, at the snap of my fingers, what is to hinder our taking the short cut to happiness, centaur and nymph?  One leap and a gallop, and we should be into the morning, leaving night to grope for us, parents and friends to run about for the wits they lose in running.  But no!  No more scandals.  That silver moon invites us by its very spell of bright serenity, to be mad:  just as, when you drink of a reverie, the more prolonged it is the greater the readiness for wild delirium at the end of the draught.  But no!’ his voice deepened—­’the handsome face of the orb that lights us would be well enough were it only a gallop between us two.  Dearest, the orb that lights us two for a lifetime must be taken all round, and I have been on the wrong side of the moon