His hands still held her hair. They lay against her heart, and moved a little as she breathed.
A sudden terror raised its head and peered at Elizabeth. Mary—oh, God—if he took her for Mary. The thought struck her as with a spear of ice. It burned as ice burns, and froze her as ice freezes. Her lips were stiff as she forced out the words:
“Who am I? Say.”
His hands were warm. He answered her at once.
“We are in the Dream, you and I. You are the Woman of the Dream. Your face is the face of Love, and your hair—your floating hair—” He paused.
“My hair—what colour is my hair?” whispered Elizabeth.
“Your hair—” He lifted a strand of it. The wind played through it, and it brushed his cheek, then fell again upon her breast. His hand closed down upon it.
“What colour is my hair?” said Elizabeth very quietly. Mary’s hair was dark. Even in the moonlight, Mary’s hair would be dark. If he said dark hair, dark like the night which would close upon them when that low moon was gone—what should she do—oh, God, what should she do?
“Your hair is gold—moon gold, which is pale as a dream,” said David Blake. And a great shudder ran through Elizabeth from head to foot as the ice went from her heart.
“Like moon gold,” repeated David, and his hands were warm against her breast.