He knew that she was coming before he saw her. She came along the edge of the plain above him springing barefoot. He saw her legs gleam under her swirling skirts. He strained his eyes to her, but could not see her face for the mist over them. He waited for her, watching, feeling her approach. She began the descent of the scarp timidly, as if she was playing with the thought of his bliss, which she held daintily in her hands. “Dangerously beautiful, my Beautiful One, art thou. Heedless always of thyself. Now a wind blows from thee to me. Thy herald, O Thou that shrillest on the wind!” He heard her gay and confident voice. “Jack! Jack! Where are you?” He rose and went to meet her; she saw him, and suddenly faltered in her stoop. She stopped, poised as if for flight; he saw her wings fold behind her, and lie quivering where they touched each other. Her heart urged her. “Go to him.” She looked at him. “I can't see him perfectly, and can't trust myself.” Her heart cried, “I have brought you so far. I daren't stop.” Still she stood and flickered. Senhouse mounted to meet her. Blushful and bashful she stood; but her eyes, deeply watchful, never left him. He, too, had lost his tongue. “Queen Mab! I knew that you were coming.” Her eyes were timid and her tongue tied. She was like a rueful child. “How did you come, my dear?” “I don't know.” “You came last night?” “Ah, you knew me?” “Well, Queen Mab?” She had nothing to say. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” he asked her, “why are you come?” “I can't tell you if you don't know.” She looked at him, and he knew. “You came to me--not because I love you?” “No, no! Not for that!” “You are beautiful beyond belief, Queen Mab. And you are the soul of truth. My dear one, do you love me?” She hung her head, and looked up from under her long lashes. He saw, not heard, her answer. He encircled her with his arm, and felt her trembling at his side. “My dear,” he said, “I was writing my Memoirs. Now we'll burn the book, for I see that I am now going to be born.” She looked up at him laughing. She was the colour of a flushed rose. “My bride,” he said, and kissed her lips. She turned in his arm and clung to him. The storm swept surging over her; passion long pent made her shiver like a blown fire. They took their wild joy.... He led her by her hand to the shade of the valley, where the deep turf is hardly ever dry. She was barefoot, as he was, and bareheaded. In her bosom was a spray of dog-rose. “You are blue-gowned, like Despoina,” he told her, “and, indeed, that is your name. I am to have a fairy wife.” “Artemis no more,” she laughed. “You fulfil all the goddesses. Artemis was your childhood. But let's be practical. What is to be done?” She faltered her answer. “I have found out by myself what to do,” she said. And then she kissed him. “It's done now.”