“Her father, the King, said, ‘She is sick.’
“Her mother, the Queen, said, ‘We shall see.’
“And so, one night, when the moon burned like a silver flame over the Kingdom, they stood at the wall of her room and peered through the chinks at their daughter. The Princess, a look of ecstasy upon her face, was in a chair, resting. In front of her was a little, old man—perched like a bird before her....
“‘What does she see in the little man?’ whispered the King.
“‘What does she see?’ demanded the Queen. Affection? A reflection of herself? Or some quality in the creature?’”
Martin stopped. Deane’s hands braided and became sexed again. Once more, Martin leaned forward.
“Would you like to hear the sequel?... It happened in Paris, Deane. There was a gargoyle struck on the cornice of a gigantic cathedral. His stone eyes had been forced shut by the ages and his only tears were rain. His thick shoulders were bent by the centuries, and moss covered his throat.
“A beautiful woman, desired by all men, surfeited by leisure and adoration, saw this figure. And so, in secret, she took lodging across from the cathedral that she might watch the shadows move in the gargoyle’s face by moonlight, by lightning-flash and in sun. Day by day she contemplated his patient, agonized expression; and day by day she became more contemptuous of the gracefulness and vanity of her suitors.
“One night, moonlit and vagaried with cloud, she was gazing at the asymmetrical face. Suddenly the head seemed to move. The woman’s heart beat quickly and she grasped the sides of her chair. Deliberately, while she watched, the gargoyle’s eyes opened and turned upon her, asking a question. The woman, protesting, held out her white hands. At this, the figure shuddered; then his stone arms pushed on the cornice and his shoulders broke from the wall.