“‘God yield you blessing,’ I said.
“In a place a little open I kindled a fire of larch boughs. She was afraid of me, hovering near, yet never crossing a space.
“‘Come,’ said I, ‘let us eat this food.’
“‘Your face,’ she said, ‘is smeared with blood.’
“I opened out my cloak.
“‘But come,’ said I, ‘you are frosted with cold.’
“I took a handful of snow in my hand, wiping my face with it, which then I dried on my cloak.
“‘My face is no longer painted with blood, you are no longer afraid of me. Come here then, sit by me while we eat.’
“But as I cut the cold bread for her, she clasped me suddenly, kissing me. She fell before me, clasped my knees to her breast, weeping. She laid her face down to my feet, so that her hair spread like a fire before me. I wondered at the woman. ‘Nay,’ I cried. At that she lifted her face to me from below. ‘Nay,’ I cried, feeling my tears fall. With her head on my breast, my own tears rose from their source, wetting my cheek and her hair, which was wet with the rain of my eyes.
“Then I remembered and took from my bosom the coloured light of that night before. I saw it was black and rough.