Corpang fingered his chin awhile. “The Lichstorm men, however, will never reach this stage, for they are too masculine.” Haunte turned pale. “Why should we alone suffer?” “Nature is freakish and cruel, and doesn’t act according to justice.... Follow us, Haunte, and escape from it all.” “I’ll see,” muttered Haunte. “Perhaps I will.” “Have we far to go, to Sullenbode?” inquired Maskull. “No, her home’s under the hanging cap of Sarclash.” “What is to happen tonight?” Maskull spoke to himself, but Haunte answered him. “Don’t expect anything pleasant, in spite of what has just occurred. She is not a woman, but a mass of pure sex. Your passion will draw her out into human shape, but only for a moment. If the change were permanent, you would have endowed her with a soul.” “Perhaps the change might be made permanent.” “To do that, it is not enough to desire her; she must desire you as well. But why should she desire you?” “Nothing turns out as one expects,” said Maskull, shaking his head. “We had better get on again.” They resumed the journey. The ledge still rose, but, on turning a corner of the cliff, Haunte quitted it and began to climb a steep gully, which mounted directly to the upper heights. Here they were compelled to use both hands and feet. Maskull thought all the while of nothing but the overwhelming sweetness he had just experienced. The flat ground on top was dry and springy. There was no more snow, and bright plants appeared. Haunte turned sharply to the left. “This must be under the cap,” said Maskull. “It is; and within five minutes you will see Sullenbode.” When he spoke his words, Maskull’s lips surprised him by their tender sensitiveness. Their action against each other sent thrills throughout his body. The grass shone dimly. A huge tree, with glowing branches, came into sight. It bore a multitude of red fruit, like hanging lanterns, but no leaves. Underneath this tree Sullenbode was sitting. Her beautiful light—a mingling of jale and white—gleamed softly through the darkness. She sat erect, on crossed legs, asleep. She was clothed in a singular skin garment, which started as a cloak thrown over one shoulder, and ended as loose breeches terminating above the knees. Her forearms were lightly folded, and in one hand she held a half-eaten fruit. Maskull stood over her and looked down, deeply interested. He thought he had never seen anything half so feminine. Her flesh was almost melting in its softness. So undeveloped were the facial organs that they looked scarcely human; only the lips were full, pouting, and expressive. In their richness, these lips seemed like a splash of vivid will on a background of slumbering protoplasm. Her hair was undressed. Its colour could not be distinguished. It was long and tangled, and had been tucked into her garment behind, for convenience.