A low, bitter cry quivered through the dark to his heart. Diadyomene had fled for a way of escape, and found it barred. Soft rapids were her feet; she came speeding full to leap past. In vain; with a cry she flung up her arms, revulsed irresistibly, swerved, and stood stone-still. She moaned out long, agonised sighs; she seemed to turn away in pride, ignoring him; she seemed to face him again, not defiant. He saw her hands outstretched in appeal. 'What have you done?' she said; 'what have you done?' and then the woful complaint was changed to wilder: 'What have I done? what have I done?' He did not dare to speak, nor had he the breath. He was weeping for her. But she, not seeing, was stirred to wrath and fear by a silence so cruel. To her height she rose above the gasping, crouched shape, and her voice rang hard and clear. 'Stand away. Once you trespassed, and I forgave you fully; twice, and I spared you; this third time--get you gone quickly, and find yourself some easy death before it be out of reach.' Still he did not answer. Her fear outdid her anger, and she stooped her pride. 'Only be kind and true, and let me go,' she implored, and knelt low as he. 'I let you take my secret, and you turn it against me treacherously. You plan a shameful snare, you, you, whom I counted true as the sun. To you, a bold, graceless stranger, I granted life at the first; to you I gave the liberty of my dearest haunt. Be just, and leave me free in my own. Have pity, and let me go. Woe and horror are coming upon me to take me, awake and astray from the comfort of the sea.' She moaned and sighed piteously. His tears fell like rain for grief of his doings, for bitter grief that he might not comfort her. Because of a base alloy that had altered sacred love he had to fear. He turned away his head, panting and shaking, for pain and thirst made almost unendurable a temptation to stretch out his hand to hers, by the magic of her touch to lose himself till death in a blissful swoon. Her wail had in it the note of a deserted child and of a desolate woman. 'I am crying to you for pity and help, and you turn away; I, who in the sea am regnant. But late you cried to me when no mercy and pardon were due, and I let you live. And if then I judged you unheard and wrongly, and if I condemned a breach of faith over harshly, here kneeling I pray you to forgive--I, who never bid vainly, never ask vainly, of any living creature but of you.' Christian only was weeping; Diadyomene shed no tear, though her voice quivered piteously. 'Ah, my sea, my sea! Hark how it moans to me, and cannot reach me! My birds fail me, nestling afar--that you considered when you came by night. Undo, undo your cruel work, and I will reproach you never.'