Cynara's voice was tenderly humorous as we left them together in the glory of the rising sun. "Poor Gamine," she said, "and poor Adric, too. I was sorry for them both. But I wish these men would make up their minds!" I had an idea. "Adric's made up his mind," I said, turning my head a little toward the couple who stood, clasped, as if they could never let go. "I suppose--" I came a little closer to Cynara, who stood looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes and lips ingenuously parted, "I suppose that gives me the right to make up my mind. Doesn't it?" She smiled. "Does it?" But her bright eyes had given me my answer, and I never had to make up my mind again. End of Project Gutenberg's Falcons of Narabedla, by Marion Zimmer Bradley