“She?”

“She whom ye love?”

“I love no woman,” said I.

“Liar!” cried he, in a terrible voice, and the voice was the voice of Black George.

“And who are you that says so?” I demanded, and stood upon my feet.

“Look—­behold and know thyself, O Blind and more than blind!” And, leaning down, he raised his visor so that the moonlight fell upon his face, and the face I looked upon was my own; and, while I gazed, he lifted up his voice, and cried: 

“Ye Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—­who is he that rideth in the green, dreaming ever of her beauty, and sighing forth his love everlastingly, Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye?”

And out of the gloom of the wood, from every rustling leaf and opening bud, came a little voice that rose and blended in a soft, hushed chorus, crying: 

“Peter Vibart—­Peter Vibart!”

“Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—­who is he that walketh to and fro in the world, and having eyes, seeth not, and ears, heareth not—­a very Fool of Love?”

Once again the voices cried in answer: 

“Peter Vibart!—­Peter Vibart!”

“Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—­who is he that shall love with a love mightier than most—­who shall suffer greatly for love and because of it—­who shall think of it by day, and dream of it o’ nights—­who is he that must die to find love and the fulness of life?—­O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!”

And again from out the green came the soft, hushed chorus: 

“Peter Vibart—­Peter Vibart!”

But, even as I laughed, came one from the wood, with a horse and armor.  And the armor he girded on me, and the horse I mounted.  And there, in the moonlit glade, we fought, and strove together, my Other Self and I. And, sudden and strong he smote me, so that I fell down from my horse, and lay there dead, with my blood soaking and soaking into the grass.  And, as I watched, there came a blackbird that perched upon my breast, carolling gloriously.  Yet, little by little, this bird changed, and lo! in its place was a new Peter Vibart standing upon the old; and the New trampled the Old down into the grass, and—­it was gone.  Then, with his eyes on the stars, the new Peter Vibart fell a-singing, and the words I sang were these: 

      “For her love I carke, and care,
       For her love I droop, and dare,
       For her love my bliss is bare. 
       And I wax wan!”

And thus there came into my heart that which had been all unknown—­undreamed of hitherto, yet which, once there, could never pass away.

“O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye—­who is he that counteth True-love sweeter than Life—­greater than Wisdom—­stronger than Death?  O Spirits of the Wood, I charge ye!”

And the hushed voices chorused softly.

“Peter Vibart—­Peter Vibart!” And, while I listened, one by one the voices ceased, till there but one remained—­calling, calling, but ever soft and far away, and when I would have gone toward this voice—­lo! there stood a knife quivering in the ground before me, that grew and grew until its haft touched heaven, yet still the voice called upon my name very softly: