Speaker 1: Elf Water by Norman Douglas. One far away among desolate peaks,
in that voiceless wilderness of stone and ice, where the
clouds linger. A horde of rivulets bursting from patches of
eternal snow, joined their waters and sped away, and the
stream leapt downwards through groves of bearded fir, or glided
in a smiling flood over smooth meads of foxglove and
tiger lily and marigolds, caressing their roots with its eddies.
To the country folk who lived in the valley below,
it was a living and a spiteful thing. They called
it elf water. Its way waves were dull, bluish, insipid
to the taste, and fraught with unhealthy chills from the
snows above. None cared to drink of them, and its
shores were encrusted with fanciful stone shapes of grass and
moss elves work like the ice crystals on the window
panes in December, and none cared to build houses near
the water, or to own the fields on either side.
For sometimes, in the bluest days of Midsummer, the stream
suddenly swelled to a furious torrent and overlapped its flowery banks,
drowning the lush meadows far and near the elves. The
old folks would then whisper, shaking their heads. They knew
its elvish and wayward tricks, and some of them may
be still believed in such creatures. And the young men
would come out to view the mischief, and gaze into
the sunny sky and up at the hills, and talk
together and look wise, secretly wondering. Only one man could
foretell the floods. He had lived on the elf Water
all his life, but he is dead long ago. His
cottage is deserted, the roof has fallen in, the wooden
beams are decayed, and green moss sprouts between the planks
of his floor. He used to look up at the
hills and see a small vapoury cloud anchored against one
snowy peak, and say nothing. Whenever they asked him to explain,
he merely smiled, as if the elf Water kept no
secrets from him. Meanwhile, the fair meadows were flooded and
the crops buried, till only a few bright green tips
showed above the seething foam. And up in the forest
where all should be still, the shriek of the torrent
could be heard from Afar. It thundered among the ravines
and roared for freedom in its narrow prison, churning the
boulders with hideous din and tumbling. The tall pines, whose
painted bowls loosened at the root, shivered and rocked like
the limbs of some convulsed giant. The pale wood flowers
nodded helplessly in the tawny spray. It was unearthly in
its rage, and then, with as little show of reason,
its elfin wrath melted to a smile, and it shrunk
back into a silvery thread of water, hushed and clear.
It was ashamed of its freak and weary. But the
harm was done, and only this one man's meadows were spared,
for they lay out of reach of the wildest floods.
They were remote from the valley by a many hours climb, damp,
sloping meads fringed by dark firs on the shady side
of the stream that rushed in a deep strid below
the cottage. The folks called them elf meadows, perhaps because
in times of flood, two or three tall columns of
spray could be seen rising up from the gulf below
and bearing some fancied resemblance to white elves or fairies.
The man had often watched these misty pillars swaying gracefully.
He loved the elf water. He had learned to identify
himself with all its moods. The ripple of its gray
wavelets was the voice of an old friend, a friend
of his boyhood, the sound that met his ears in
the earliest morning, and that charmed him to sleep at night.
And he often thought of the days when, as a
child he used to hang over the dim forest pools
and watch the bubbles, and hearkened to rare music streaming
upwards from the depths. It was the pebbles dancing in
the current, But to his childish ears it sounded like
the faint songs of the water fairies disporting themselves on
the crystal floor. And if by chance he dropped anything
into the stream, the els were sure to bring it
to the surface again. Every one, indeed, was agreed upon
that point. Size and axes and sickles that had fallen
into the deep pools were always churned up again and
found lying on the banks sharper than before. The folks said,
And once a heavy cart loaded with hay was overtaken
by a sudden flood and borne away next day. Wonderful
to relate, they found it standing upright and unharmed on
the bank. If there are no elves who had done it.
Even the man's old mother was sometimes amazed at these things,
although she generally scot at the mountaineer's beliefs, for she
came from the green plains, far beyond the hills, where
the folks are quite different. She laughed at the dull
peasants and their ways. She was no dreamer. She knew
about everything and believed in nothing. They feared her, but
she feared none. She was calm and upright, and even tempered,
and prodigiously old ninety years maybe, or even a hundred.
But she was lithe and strong, and her back was
straight as a lance. Her husband had died long ago,
she had lived in that lonely cottage with her son
all his life. Two Will she live forever? He often wondered.
He hoped she would die, and that soon, for they
hated one another, and yet, strangely enough, both were just
and honest, and even kind according to their lights. And
they lived together, both thinking that they were performing a
duty towards each other. In that low ceilinged room, with
its wooden wainscoting, stained and blackened by age, they often
sat and looked at one another for many hours without
speaking a word. You are your father's child, she would
at last say, regretfully. She never reproached him with aught else,
for he was a good son, and he never dreamed
of vexing her, for she was his mother. And then
she would look at him again, and he would look
back and say nothing. What should he say? It was
true enough. He was like his father in all things,
short and heavy, chested, indifferent to cold and heat, with
dark eyes and crafty features that reflected in their harshness
the crags and chasms of his home. Slow to laugh,
slow to speak, slow to decide, superstitious, gentle, but pitiless
in resolve, a peculiar compound of strength and weakness. She
would have wished to herself another son, tall, gay, ambitious,
instead of this contented and crooked creature of the mountains.
And perhaps she thought of her own home in the
rich plains, with their white domed cities and laughing merchant folk.
Did she regret having exchanged them for a hard life
among the mountains. Doubtless, but she was never heard to
complain of her lot, and much as they disliked her,
none could find an evil word to say of her.
She had a sense of duty and an unbending will,
such as would have driven her in other times and
places to seek a martyr's death rather than yield in
her conviction. She had served her husband faithfully up to
the day of his death, and although she exacted blind
obedience from the child, she never treated him with harshness.
But from his earliest youth he had never understood his mother,
and after his father's death he smiled seldom. He soon
learned to close the channels of his heart, to retire
within himself, wondering and dismayed, and leaving unspoken many thoughts.
Even in the olden days, it had been a strange
love that they bore to one another. There was little
charity in that house. The old woman, accustomed to have
her own way, treated him like a child long after
he was grown to manhood, and such was his piety
that he seldom dared to cross her wishes. Her mind
was stronger than his, but he was warmer of heart.
Why then, do you not leave me and return to
your own home, he would sometimes ask. He longed for
her to take him at his word, but she never
left him. She evidently thought this a passing whim on
his part. Indeed what vexed him most of all, she
seldom entered seriously into any of his ideas, regarding him
rather as an idle visionary whose fancies must be humored.
Or if mischievous repressed, leave you. Leave you, my son,
And why leave you? My folks are all dead, and
what would befall you without me? She seemed to doubt
whether the man of fifty could provide for himself. And
yet she was not wholly insincere. There was something of
pity mingled with her contempt. He was her son, her
weak son. How else could he suggest such a thing?
You drove her away, he once dared to reply, trembling
with rage. If she were here, there would be no
need for you. Since that day I have suffered. He
spoke of his life long grief, and wondered at his
own boldness in thus reproaching his mother. These are foolish words,
my son. She looked bravely into his eye. Foolish words,
but she feared inwardly, for he spoke the truth the
matter of the man's wife was the only one she
dreaded to discuss with him. The old woman knew that
she had made a mistake, but it was against her
nature ever to acknowledge a fault, and she therefore affected
to ignore his grief, And in truth, she could not
easily bring herself to comprehend such an enduring affection. Twenty
years have passed since then, she mused, why does he
not forget? No son of hers would think so long
of one and the same woman in this one one thing.
The man had thwarted his mother and brought home a
bride who was not to her liking. But the victory
had sapped his energy, and he was too weak, or
maybe too pious a common enough story to profit by it,
and bid the old woman begone. There followed a few
short years, during which the mother regained her power over
her son and tormented in a thousand ways the young wife,
who finally fled in despair, never to return. The cottage
remained the same, with its cool meadows and dark belt
of forest, but the light of love was gone out,
and an undying hatred kindled. That terrible morning when he
found himself deserted the elf water was in flood, convulsed
in its deep bed, and howling in the hollow caverns,
that it had torn itself into the mountain's side. He
climbed up to a certain little knoll, there where the
earth slopes away in a steep ledge above the thundering cataract,
and where he had often sat with her, who was
now departed. The current below this point was so fast
that it might well have carried away the strongest man.
Had she perished in the water, surely not. It was
his friend. It restored to him all that he ever lost.
He looked down the stream. There was sunshine and peace
in the valley below, but here all was gray, desolation
and loneliness, the torn clouds stuck among the pines and
ever and anon. A ghost like pillar of spray rose
up from the noisy depths and drenched the meadows with
its dew. Sometimes one remained upright, swaying in the wind,
like a shrouded human form. She cannot be dead, he thought,
she will return in the course of time. Disquieting rumors
of her. The absent one had reached the valley. The
folks said that she well deserved all that she may
have suffered, since she deserted a good husband for no cause.
But the man cared nothing for evil reports. He knew
the truth, and that it was all his mother's work.
He thought of the picture as he had seen it,
and each time he looked upon his mother's face, an
hundred times daily, he was reminded of that other one
who had suffered through her. But the old woman always
knew the direction of his thoughts and stared back at
him fearlessly, though without unkindness. She knew her power over him,
and exerted it freely, returning his look so steadfastly that
he often felt the strength oozing out of his bones,
as after a long illness. Often they sat thus in
that dark room, confronting one another. They stared for long,
long hours, striving for the mastery, and never a word
was spoken. He longed for her to yield, to confess
with her eyes at least, but she never admitted any fault,
and there was nothing to be read out of her eyes.
They were pale, blue, cold and lively as the ripples
of a mountain river, and fringed with bristly white lashes.
Her long curls drooped over them for her oval. Forehead
was overhung down to the nose, with thick locks white
as driven snow, and stiff hairs curled over her lips
and out of her nostrils. She had a strange, deep voice,
gruff as a cracked bell, and a complexion clearer than
a child's. Under its transparent skin could be seen the
veins wandering about like little red rivers. And even in
her old age, she was taller than her son. Likely enough,
she had been comely in her youth, but now she
was grown monstrous. She used to say, look you, what
could you do without me? I must care for you
like a little child. Do not I work for you,
make your food and clothing. It was true enough, like
everything that she said, He had grown idle and listless
in latter years. But he thought how different it might
have been, how happy I was, and how little would
have contented me. Then he would sigh to himself, grief laden,
and the customary look of reproach which she was awaiting,
did not come. For he left the room silently with
bowed head, and as often as he returned he found
her sitting upright on her bench beside the stove, with
her long fingers working at her wool, ever ready to
take up the mute challenge to the man. Thus peering
into her glassy eyes, they seemed to swell till they
dominated his whole being. He clenched his fists and looked away. Sometimes,
after such a struggle, a strange feeling of rage and
power entered into him. It made his whole body tremble.
He thought it was an evil spirit tempting him. It
used to whisper in his ear, but he could not
understand the words, And as the years went on, they
spoke less with one another. Silence and hatred lay heavy
upon that home. The man's black, curly hair was already
streaked with gray. As for the woman, she grew old old,
but she never changed three. Will she live forever? He wondered. Aye,
we are a long lived race, she said aloud, For
even when he was yet a child, she always guessed
his thoughts as correctly as if he had spoken them aloud.
I am old. I have lost count of the time,
but I shall live yet many years and work for you.
Be thankful. We are a strong race. Our blood is good.
We live long. Too long, he thought, and would have
said it aloud, but the impious words stuck in his
throat and choked him. The old woman meanwhile fixed her
eyes upon him, knowing his thoughts, Surely, she said, trying
to sweeten the gruff tones of her voice into persuasive pleading.
Surely you would not drive your mother out in her
old age to die by the roadside. Surely not, he replied,
moved by a return of his natural piety. But how
different it might have been. As he stepped out of
the doorway, he found lying upon the threshold a log
of wood with some blood stains upon it, and a
bunch of gaudy feathers. He recognized the feathers there were
those of a jay, doubtless the old familiar bird that
visited the cottage at times. His mother must have killed
it after waiting for her opportunity all these many years.
She hated it on account of its history, for it
was the young woman, the absent one, who had and
tamed it during her short life at the elf meadow.
The man, although generally callous to the sufferings of the
wild things of nature, was strangely affected in his present
exasperation by the sight of these poor remains. His mother
had chosen an evil moment, he carried in the feathers
and held them before her eyes. Look, I see why
have you killed it? Because it was thievish, and because
I disliked it? She added truthfully. She was never so
sure of her ascendency over him. But he was enraged
at the hard words he thought of the absent one.
It was as if a link between himself and her
had been cruelly severed. He said fiercely, you killed it,
even as you killed her. This cannot endure. All this
is foolish talk. Will you never be reasonable? Even as
you killed her? He repeated hoarsely. There was a tingling
in his ears, and the veins in his forehead suddenly swelled.
Then the evil spirit came it had come often of late,
and spoke to him. He understood what it said. It said, now, oh,
you killed her. This cannot endure. One of us two
shall die even as you killed her. Ah, Do you understand?
Do you confess you killed her? Ah? And I will
kill you. And for the first time in his life,
he seized her in a grip of steel and shook
her till the white curls danced over her face, a
rain of fiery sparks was falling before his eyes, and
he shook on regardless of her shrieks. How light she was.
She reeled under his arm, and he would assuredly have
shaken the last breath out of her old body. But
that something in the touch of her cold, dry skin
brought him abruptly to his senses. Again, let me go,
she growled as boldly as she could, gasping with rage
and breathlessness. Would you raise your hand against your mother?
You are no man, But he was inwardly glad for
the spell he thought was broken. He used to fear her,
but now he had seen her weakness. She is only
a woman, only a weak woman. Nevertheless, his energy soon
melted away, and, like after his marriage, he lacked courage
to bid her begone. He had felt his strength, but
he feared to use it, and the woman had felt
her weakness, but she sought to hide it. She would
show no signs of defeat. Yet whenever she spoke to him,
she was sensible of a strange twitching in her jaw,
and a new tone in her voice, the sound of fear,
which she tried to conceal but could not. Therefore, she
wisely ceased to speak altogether. And the man likewise preferred silence,
since he foresaw that he could no longer reckon upon
his self control in the ear event of a dispute.
Thus neither trusting themselves to speak to the other, many
days and many months would pass without a word being said,
although they looked at one another from time to time
in a way that left little to be misinterpreted. In
his dumb contests with those relentless eyes, the man was worsted.
The old woman, without a word, gradually cowed him into
submission and re established her empire, And the man now
only clung with luxurious self torture to the bittersweet remembrance
of other days. The absent one at that distance of
time had become invested with a sacred and well nigh
supernatural character. He would not believe in her death she
will return to me. His superstitious mind would have deemed
it little of a miracle to have encountered her in
saintly guise during his wanderings in the forest or on
the banks of the stream, where they had often lingered together.
She was no longer a human creature, but a shadowy
being crowned with a halo of immortality, as for the
old woman. She lived on for many years. Will she
live forever? Aye? She was clearly fated to live forever,
and he no longer cherished any hope. He would repeat
this cannot endure. One of us two must die. But
it endured. You are no man. It was true enough,
like everything that she said, you are no man. He
laughed at his own weakness, a bitter laugh. Would he
kill her? He shuddered at the idea. Besides, he dared
not once. Indeed, after an unhappy day and many hours
of sleepless torments, the evil spirit came again and spoke
to him in the same manner as before, and he
crept up to where she slept, hardly knowing what he
was about to do. It was midnight. She lay with
folded palms, half reclining in her accustomed attitude, on the
bench beside the stove. She breathed softly, but her eyes
were not shut. They were open and glowed like lamps
in the dark. The man stepped back, awe stricken. I
see you, she said, calmly, without moving so much as
a finger. Hated words that haunted him ever Afterwards. She
was satisfied with her triumph and said nothing, but the
man's last spark of courage was crushed out of him.
Thenceforth he walked with downcast head and averted look. Never
again would he raise his hand or even his voice
against her. At times, to escape from his care, he
descended into the valley and drank fiercely. But more often
he wandered through the lonely forests, loudly praying for forgiveness,
for guidance, and for release from those awful eyes that
vampire like sucked out the strength of his body. His
soul was humbled to the dust. The trees, the rocks,
and the wild waters were witnesses of his heart felt supplications.
He prayed thus for many years, and in the end
his prayer was heard. Four For the old woman grew blind.
The blue fire faded out of her eyes. They became milky,
as it were two white opals, though the flame still
burned dimly within. For a long time, she hid it
from her son, but he found out in the end
and thanked the great being who had heard his prayer.
You wax blind, mother, your eyes are filmy. Nay you
mistake I see well, she answered, looking boldly towards him,
for she knew that he was watching her. Steadfastly, she
struggled on with an iron will. Whenever his glance fell
upon her. She must have felt it, for she at
once stared back into his face, and so steadily that
he often wondered whether he was indeed not mistaken. But
her task became harder every day, and she began to
fear mightily, For although her old body was healthy and
tough as an oak, she foresaw that with the darkening
of her sight, her power over him would wane. The
film grows upon you, mother, I think not, I see
my wool, she croaked back, but slowly the crystal of
her eye clouded to dull horn. Again, he insisted, you
see me, less plainly than before, strangling as best he
could the joy that quivered in his voice. I see
you well enough. But she saw him not at all.
She was stone blind, and when she spoke with her
son there resounded a horrible note of triumph and menace
in his voice. She thought, he will kill me if
he discovers the truth. For thus she interpreted his crooked,
peasant nature. Yet she still contrived to hide her fear,
even as he hid his joy. Casting about meanwhile, for
some new device to overawe him. At last, she hit
upon a cunning and bold deceit worthy of her fearless mind.
I am not blind. I see you. I see every
hair on your head, and I look into your eyes.
I pierce them through. He turned aside from her fixed stare.
Is it possible, he wondered, I see this film of
which you speak is in your own eyes. I can
see into your very heart and read your evil thoughts
and wishes? Are you not ashamed? Such words she often repeated,
and each time the man heard them, it was as
though a lash had struck him. And he looked at
her and to read the truth out of her calm face,
and his superstitious mind grew afraid. I see you, she repeated,
and she dissembled so well that he began to believe.
His blood curdled with fear. Was it possible? He took
to prowling stealthily as a lynx, hoping to avoid her glance,
and by taking her unawares, to satisfy himself of her blindness.
But she was too quick for him. Her pearly eyes
always discovered his whereabouts, and her words sunk into his heart.
I see you, I see everything. She growled with well
simulated joy. She had duped him. But a nameless dread
fell upon the man. He went out of the door
and passed through the forest, and never returned for many weeks.
Five one sunless morning in the early spring, he staggered
home from the village. His gait was unsteady, but there
sat a steady purpose in his heart. The old woman
lay in her accustomed attitude, on the broad bench beside
the stove. She never moved, She slept. She slept much
in these latter days. The man crept nearer, craving to
look into her face. She slept on, and her sharp
ears never heard his approach, for the elf water was
in flood, writhing and screeching in its narrow channel, till
the cottage trembled with the fury of the water. As
he bent down to look at her, the door was
burst open by a sudden gust of wind, but she
slept on. He turned back to shut it, and as
he did so, he looked out upon the landscape. There
was sunshine and peace in the valley below, but here
all was gray, desolation and loneliness. The torn clouds stuck
among the pines and ever and anon, a ghostlike pillar
of spray rose up from the noisy depths and drenched
the meadows with its dew. It was on such a
morning he remembered how long he had waited. Surely she
the absent one, would come soon, And he returned to
look down upon the old woman, the cause of all
she slept on. Then the evil spirit drew near and
spoke to him. It said, now and already his teeth
were set to the work. But at that moment she
awoke of her own accord and opened her eyes. They
were like disks of polished lead. And when she had
done so, and never so much as took notice of him,
he knew the truth. She was blind, blind as a stone.
He stepped back a pace, breathing heavily with the weight
of unexpected joy, and then an immense wave of love
and compassion swept over him, submerging every other thought or feeling.
He pitied her misfortune, and would fain have forgiven her all.
He would love her doubly, he would humble himself in
ministering to all the wants of her old age. But
the woman soon felt the human presence, and in mingled
fear and defiance, shrieked aloud, little dreaming what effect the
words would have. I see you, I see everything, hated,
words that turned his love to very madness. For immediately
it was as if a crimson flame leapt up before him,
burning away the remembrance of all that is or had been.
And he held her gently and said his words sounded
like a lesson learned beforehand. Enough come be gone full?
Will you raise your hand against your mother? Leave me?
But he only drew her nearer to him. Then the
truth flashed upon her, and her voice broke from its
troubled depths to a scream that drowned the howl of
the wild waters. Out upon you monster. You wish to
kill me, but I wish to live. Are you not
satisfied with my blindness? She thought, by this confession to
appease his wrath, But it was too late, and her
words were lost. Perhaps he would have obeyed if he
had heard, for his piety was fervent, But he saw
and heard nothing. There was a din in his ears,
as of crashing thunders, and a mighty curtain of blood
swayed heavily to and fro before his eyes. He merely
uttered that one word come. It sounded dream like and distant,
as though another man, not himself, were speaking. The woman,
undeceived as to his intent, struck out bravely with her arms,
fighting like a mountain cat. But he gathered energy from
her resistance and picked her up as he would a child,
for though tall, she was thin and light, and carried
her out of the cottage and across the damp meadow.
Her white locks were driven by the wind about his face.
The elf water shouted for gladness. He returned alone and
sat still awhile, pondering painfully. It cost an effort to
collect his thoughts, for he was still drunken and dazed
with the shock of the last hour. Slowly, reluctantly, one
by one, the memories crept back, building themselves up into
the hideous fabric of his crime. Ah. He remembered it all,
but a pallid fear shook him. What if she had
not died, and if the elf water yielded her up again,
even as it yielded up all else. God, if she
were still alive, she was strong and active. His teeth chattered,
and his eyes remained fixed upon the half open door,
for he dreaded every minute to see her return with
dripping garments to the accustomed seat, and then turning to
confront him with that leaden stare. But as she never returned,
he finally crept across the meadows to the water's edge,
peering into the misty depths below. Then he looked down
the stream. There was nothing in sight. Puffs of wet
breath came up at times from the torrent and cooled
his heated head. And then suddenly he saw, or thought
he saw a pale, gray shape moving in the water
far away. Soon it reached the shore and disengaged itself
from among the boulders. It stood upright how tall it was.
Its garments were long and clinging, and it climbed slowly
towards him, stumbling often among the stones. Slowly it wound
itself aloft. It seemed to be weak, for it paused
at times to gather strength or to bethink itself. Was
it a specter? Surely not, surely it was his mother
escaped alive from the whirlpools of the elf water. The
man raised his hand to his head, where the moist
perspiration had gathered. He was unnerved with fear, But the
shape had reached the narrow path, and, after resting a while,
suddenly stretched out its arms as though feeling the way,
and seemed to drift straight towards him at a rapid pace.
It had evidently made up its mind it came nearer.
He waited no longer. He was seized with a blind,
unreasoning panic, and fled upwards past the cottage into the
deepest shades of the dripping forest, and never so much
as stopped to look behind him, for he felt that
it was pressing upon his heels, and there, sheltered under
a huge fur, he remained many hours, terror stricken. Evening
closed in upon him, But at last he reasoned away
his fear and turned his steps homewards in a quieter
frame of mind. And yet he could not rid himself
of the notion that the horror was somewhere near at hand,
lurking in the darkling shades. He would gladly have shouted
to reassure himself, but he dreaded lest the sound of
his voice might start it up before his very face.
And as he silently walked on, his alarms grew apace
like a startled child. He dared not turn his head,
but walked faster and faster through the dark trees, till
on the meadows his pace increased to a run, a horrible,
breathless race. He entered his home and looked around him,
fearful of some unspeakable calamity. The shape had arrived before him.
It sat upright and stern on the accustomed bench, and
its eyes, those awful eyes, stared at him with fixed
determination across the darkened room. They seemed to say, one
of us, two shall die. He felt his hair raise
itself under his thick fur cap. He would have fled,
but his feet refused to move, and there began a
strange throbbing in his head. He was constrained to stand
still and gaze. Aye. It was his own corporeal mother.
Her clothes were dripping, and a little pool of water
had collected on the floor. She remained immovable as a rock,
save for an occasional spasm of shivering. She had apparently
not yet heard him. There was a line of human
suffering about the mouth, as of one who would weep
but cannot, And the man saw a small stream of
blood oozing from a wound on her head. It trickled
slowly and stained her white locks with crimson drops. At
that sight, there fled across his disordered mind a shadow,
a fleeting mockery of the former feeling of love and contrition.
But the old woman made a slight movement. She must
have become aware of the human presence, and she deliberately
opened her mouth to speak, no doubt the hated words.
Her spirit was unbroken. Then the man, by a last
effort of will, tottered forth, vanquished his temples, ached fiercely,
bereft of reason, he strayed into the gray twilight, to
the water's edge, and lo not far away from a
certain little knoll, there where the earth slopes away in
a steep ledge. Above the thundering patter, another frail white
shape floated lovingly towards him. It came nearer, delicately, and
enveloped him in its dewy shroud. At last, the spray
fell in showers upon his burning head. But his arms
sought the yielding form, and he fell prone into the void,
meeting its chill caresses with a responsive kiss, and of
elf water