And as he looked—O sorrow!—the red disk of the setting sun descended behind the sharp mountain peak of Thessaly.
Then instantly the blood sank from his heart, as if its very walls had caved in, for he remembered the trysting-hour-now gone by! Without a word he turned and rushed forth madly through the city and the gate, over the fields into the wood.
Spent of breath he reached the tree, and, listening fearfully, he heard once more the low voice murmur:—
“Rhoecus!”
But as he looked he could see nothing but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.
Then the voice sighed: “O Rhoecus, nevermore shalt thou behold me by day or night! Why didst thou fail to come ere sunset? Why didst thou scorn my humble messenger, and send it back to me with bruised wings? We spirits only show ourselves to gentle eyes! And he who scorns the smallest thing alive is forever shut away from all that is beautiful in woods and fields. Farewell! for thou canst see me no more!”
Then Rhoecus beat his breast and groaned aloud. “Be pitiful,” he cried. “Forgive me yet this once!”
“Alas,” the voice replied, “I am not unmerciful! I can forgive! But I have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes, nor can I change the temper of thy heart.” And then again she murmured, “Nevermore!”
And after that Rhoecus heard no other sound, save the rustling of the oak's crisp leaves, like surf upon a distant shore.