And so it came. It came as the dawn comes, unheralded, unheeded--spreading wider, till the day is there. Months afterwards they talked about it, and Thyrsis asked, “When did I propose to you?” “I don’t think you ever proposed to me,” she answered. “It just came. It had to come--there was no other way.” “But when did I first kiss you?” he asked. “I don’t know even that,” she said, and pondered. “Did I kiss you that night when we sat on the hill?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have known it if you had,” said Corydon. “It was as natural for you to kiss me as it was for me to draw my breath.” Section 7. The moon was high when they went down the hill, and he rowed her home. They were silent with the awe that was upon them. They found the people at home in a panic, but they scarcely knew this--and they scarcely troubled to explain. Then Thyrsis went home, and spent half the night roaming about in excitement. And early in the morning he was sitting on the edge of his canvas-cot, whispering to himself again, “Corydon! Little Corydon!” He could not think of work that day, but set out to walk to the village by the lonely mountain-road; and half-way there he met the girl, coming in the other direction. There was a light of wonder in her eyes; and also there was perplexity. For all that morning she had been whispering to herself, “Thyrsis! Thyrsis!” They sat by the roadside to talk it over. “Corydon,” he began, “I’ve been thinking about what we said last night, and it frightens me horribly. And I want to ask you please not to think about it any more. I could not take anyone else into my life--before God, I couldn’t be so cruel. I have been shuddering at the thought of it. Oh please, please, run away from me--before it is too late!” “Is that the way it seems?” she asked. “Corydon!” he cried. “I am a tormented man! There can’t be any happiness in the world for me. And you are so beautiful and so pure and so good--I simply dare not think of it! You must be happy, Corydon!” “I have never yet been happy,” she said. “Listen,” he went on--“there is a stanza of Walter Scott’s that came to me this morning--an outlaw song. It seemed to sum up all my feeling about it: “‘Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I’ll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I!’” Corydon sat staring ahead. “You can’t frighten me away from you,” she said, in a low voice. “It isn’t worth your while to try. But let me tell you what I came to say. I’m so ignorant and so helpless--I didn’t see how I could be of any use to you. And so I wanted to tell you that you must do whatever seemed best to you--just don’t count me at all. You see what I mean--I’m not afraid for myself, but just for you. I couldn’t bear the thought that I might be in your way. I felt I had to come and tell you that, before you went back to your work.”