"All that I knew of thee, my Love,
The great winds bore away.
When they are hushed wilt thou return
To bless the close of day?
"In that still hour come back to me,
And find thy longed-for rest.
Poor petal blown too near the sun,
Float downward to my breast."
"Ah," cried Felice, "it is my old Love."
"My love for thee is older than the moon," said the Golden Archer. "Can you not rest by our hearth?"
Then she knelt by him and pressed her face against his knees. And his heart grew as heavy as a weary dream before a sultry dawn when the thunder hangs in the hills. Her grief weighed all the more upon him because he knew she was trying to love him; and when that hour of effort comes death is under its cloak.
But the next day she was cheerful and sang about her tasks. The Golden Archer saddled his horse and rode miles through the forest upon the crisp red leaves; and he knew that goodness would not hold her, nor kindness, nor fidelity, nor service, for love like hers is held prisoner to nothing once its wings are outstretched, nor does it know good from evil.
[Illustration: THE GOLDEN ARCHER AND FELICE]
When he rode home the stars were peeping through the forest branches, and the white owls were flying. But the frost that silvered the red leaves was not so sharp and glistening as the memory of her tears.
As he reached his door he saw that it was open and the light from the fire shone out upon the dark paths of the forest. But the room was empty of her presence.
He called her name, but no answer was returned; then on a tablet upon the table he saw words written and brought them to the fire and read them.