One day, late in the afternoon, Billy lay on his favorite spot on the southern reef, dreaming.  High up in the air, Julia flashed and gyrated, revolved and spun.  It seemed to Billy that he had never seen her go so high.  She looked like a silver feather.  But as he looked, she went higher and higher, so high that she disappeared vertically.

A strange sense of loneliness fell on Billy.  This was the first time since she had begun to come regularly to the island that she had cut their tryst short.  He waited.  She did not appear.  A minute went by.  Another and another and another.  His sense of loneliness deepened to uneasiness.  Still there was no sign of Julia.  Uneasiness became alarm.  Ah, there she was at last — a speck, a dot, a spot, a splotch.  How she was flying!  How — .

Like a bullet the conviction struck him.

She was falling!

Memories of certain biplanic explorations surged into his mind.  “She’s frozen,” he thought to himself.  “She can’t move her wings!” Terror paralyzed him; horror bound him.  He stood still-numb, dumb, helpless.

Down she came like an arrow.  Her wings kept straight above her head, moveless, still.  He could see her breast and shoulders heave and twist, and contort in a fury of effort.  Underneath her were the trees.  He had a sudden, lightning-swift vision of a falling aviator that he had once seen.  The horror of what was coming turned his blood to ice.  But he could not move; nor could he close his eyes.

“Oh, God!  Oh, God!  Oh, God!” he groaned.  And, finally, “Oh, thank God!”

Julia’s wings were moving.  But apparently she still had little control of them.  They flapped frantically a half-minute; but they had arrested her fall; they held her up.  They continued to support her, although she beat about in jagged circles.  Alternately floating and fluttering, she caught on an air-current, hurled herself on it, floated; then, as though she were sliding through some gigantic pillar of quiet air, sank earthwards.  She seized the topmost bough of one of the high trees, threw her arms across it and hung limp.  She panted; it seemed as if her breasts must burst.  Her eyes closed; but the tears streamed from under her eyelids.

Billy ran close.  He made no attempt to climb the tree to which she clung, so weakly accessible.  But he called up to her broken words of assurance, broken phrases of comfort that ended in a wild harangue of love and entreaty.

After a while her breath came back.  She pulled herself up on the bough and sat huddled there, her eyelids down, her silvery fans drooping, the great mass of her honey-colored hair drifting over the green branches, her drapery of white lilies, slashed and hanging in tatters, the tears still streaming.  Except for its ghastly whiteness, her face showed no change of expression.  She did not sob or moan, she did not even speak; she sat relaxed.  The tears stopped flowing gradually.  Her eyelids lifted.  Her eyes, stark and dark in her white face, gazed straight down into Billy’s eyes.