And again the fresh waft passed across his cheeks, and again the flutter of radiant green and the fair face caught his eyes.
"Yes," he said, "I see you now—or—or I did see you half a second ago," for even while he said it the vision had seemed to fade.
"That's right—then come."
He was opening his lips to ask how and where, but he had not time, nor did he need to do so. The breeze, slight as it was, seemed to draw him onwards, and the faint, quivering green light gleamed out from moment to moment before him. It was evident which way he was to go. Only for an instant a misgiving came over him and he hesitated.
"I say," he called out, "you mustn't be offended, but you're not a will-o'-the-wisp, are you? I don't want to follow one of them. They're no good."
Again the soft laughter, but it sounded kind and pleasant, not the least mocking.
"That's right. Never have anything to say to will-o'-the-wisps, Gratian. But I'm not one—see—I keep on my way. I don't dance and jerk from side to side."
It was true; it was wonderful how fast she—if it were she, the voice sounded like a woman's—got over the ground and Gratian after her, without faltering or stumbling or even getting out of breath.
"Here we are," she said, "stoop down Gratian—there are your books hidden beside the furze bush at your feet. And it is going to rain; they would have been quite spoilt by morning even if I had done my best. It was an ugly trick of Master Tony's. There now, have you got them?"
"Yes, thank you," said Gratian, fumbling for his satchel, still hanging round his shoulders, though to his surprise empty, for he did not remember having thrown the stones out, "I have got them all now. Thank you very much whoever you are. I would like to kiss you if only I could see you long enough at a time."