Afterwards he took Corydon for a walk. They climbed the hill where he came to battle with the stormwinds, and to watch the sunsets and the moon rising over the lake. And then they went down into the glen, where the mountain streamlet tumbled. Here had been wood-sorrel, and a carpet of the white trillium; and now there was adder’s tongue, quaint and saucy, and columbine, and the pale dusty corydalis. There was soft new moss underfoot, and one walked as if in a temple.
Thyrsis pointed out a seat beside a deep bubbling pool. “Here’s where I sit and write,” he said.
“And how comes the book?” asked Corydon.
“Oh, I’m hammering at it—that’s the best I can say.”
“What is it?”
“Why—it’s a story. I suppose it’ll be called a romance, though I don’t like the word.”
Corydon pondered for a moment. “I wouldn’t expect you to be writing anything romantic,” she said.
Thyrsis, occupied with his own thoughts, observed, “I might call it a revolutionary romance.”
“What is it about?”
He hesitated. “It happens in the middle ages,” he said. “There’s a minstrel and a princess.”