Deep night.
CHAPTER XXIII
Deep night. Over the castle Pegasus, over town southward the Eagle, walking down the west the Ploughman, low in the southwest the Scorpion, due south the Archer, on the meridian the Lyre.
Deep night in prison. Morgen Fay waked. “What use in sleeping? I shall do no work to-morrow.”
Memory. For some ease, take Memory by the hand, but go with her into old countries, not into those near at hand! She remembered a forest like to Wander forest, and she remembered an ocean with shells upon the beach. So cool the air, and the water going over her, cool, cool and restful! She remembered music.
Once a grey-beard begging friar had told her that all things that ever were or are or can be were but parts of music. “Listen, and you will hear! Gather the notes and make them into strains. Put the strains together—you will begin to have a notion! When you have lived long enough you will come to hear the strains made of strains and how they combine. All the jangle is imperfect music, music finding itself—”
Music. So it was all music? A long way to-night to where you might see that!
Dancing. Once it had come to her herself, watching sunbeams and some nodding, waving trees and a long ripple over wheat, and feeling a wind that kept measure, that dancing was somehow a great and sweet idea of some great Gayheart. “Shall I dance in prison and hear music, and to-morrow flying this way?”