She was barefooted and bareheaded, dressed in a yellow gown that had buttons of ivory upon it.
And we asked her as we went along the streams: Had she no fear of the night time?
“When the four ends of the world drop on you like death?” says I.
“... and the fogs rise up on you like moving grief?” says he.
“... and you hear the hoofs of the half god whisking behind the hedges,” says I.
“... and there are bad things like bats troubling the air!” says he.
“... or the twig of a tree comes and touches you like a finger!” says I.
“... the finger of some meditating doom!” says he.
“No, I am not,” cried Mary, “but I am glad to be going with you.”
Her hand was again resting upon my arm.