He took up his mission with all his best powers well ordered; but to no purpose he persisted--she fenced too well for him. She began by denying any value to her soul; before they ended she challenged him to prove his own existence; and, to his amazement, he found that he could not against her, and rude demonstration he did not dare. He brought off with unsuccess, great joy by her least favour, sharp stings by her least resentment, yet no suspicion that the sea-witch had him in the toils. Giles mending Rhoda's shoes clacked fondly: 'A pretty little foot she has. Such a pit-a-pat little pair I never did see.' Away to sacred white sands flew Christian's thoughts: he wondered if slender footmarks lay there, and which way set. A little folly came into his mind: to plant his bare feet over those dints pace by pace--delicate near paces; for the soles of his feet to walk intimate with the mould of hers. The little folly in his mind extended, set also his palm to the sand, his cheek, his brow. He came to himself from foot to face tingling, and amazed. 'A sweet, pretty wench!' was Giles's refrain. 'Eh?' Christian assented. 'One more to my taste does not tread shoe-leather. Eh?' With a singular expression Christian gave a 'No' of sufficient emphasis. He looked at Rhoda and grew red. Rhoda and Christian went amidst the fig-tree and trained it up to the eaves. Lois and Giles looked on from the porch; when they spoke, it was low as the rustle of the boughs. 'Young Adam and Eve' slid to Christian's ears. He looked at Giles; saw the fond, complacent smile and the shrewd eye; saw his mother's face, grave, concerned, tender; glanced down at Rhoda, and met her shy, happy eyes. He understood, and like lightning shot the revelation that with body and soul he loved Diadyomene. CHAPTER VII He found her curved in a nest of sleep full in the sun. Her breath was gentle as childhood's, and as guileless her face. Her head was regal, for the hair dried crowned it in a dark coil wound and bound with wisps of splendid pearls. The young lover's passion resolved itself into prayer. As never before in his life, with concentration and fervour he importuned his God for the redemption of her lost soul. The shadow of his crest edged her shoulder; a movement brought to the line of her cheek the shadow of his. At that, prayer failed for an amorous instant; eclipse dipped across her brow; sleep parted; she was looking at him. 'Ah, Grey Eyes!' she said, and smiled. 'Be gracious by one little word, Diadyomene. Why never yet will you call me by my name?' 'Your name? No, 'tis an ill-made name. Put it away and bear another that I will choose.' 'I could not. Yet what would you choose?' 'Diadyomenos, may be!' she said softly, smiling. The honour of the consort name caught his breath. 'But I could not; not even for that could I lay aside the name I had in baptism.'