Yet for all this she watched for him. When she went forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way. The weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as Atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. When by chance she raised her eyes, there at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her thoughts.
“I have come back, lady,” he said.
“Oh!” she cried from her heart, “I am glad thou hast come back.”
Then he bent and kissed her hand. So once more they walked in silence side by side along the path they had walked before. As they drew near to the edge of the forest, Atalanta was the first to speak.
“And thy vow,” she asked—“hast thou found release from it?”
“Not yet,” he answered. “I am come back to run the race, that I may win release.”
Once again the spirit of perversity came upon her. “Where hast thou learnt to run like the wind?” she asked.
“I have not learnt to run like the wind,” he replied. “I have learnt something better than that.”
“Few things are better in a race than swiftness,” she said.
“True,” he answered; “yet I have found the one thing better.”