“Then thou art only Ulad, a man?” she cried, and she put her arms about him, and kissed him on the lips and on the breast, sobbing low as with a strange gladness—“I will follow thee, Ulad, to death, for I am thy woman.”
“Ay,” he said, looking beyond her, “if I feed thee, and call thee my woman, and find pleasure in thee, and give thee my manhood.”
“And what else wouldst thou, O Ulad?” Fand asked, wondering.
“I am Ulad the Lonely,” he answered: this, and no more.
Then, later, he took the hollow reed again, and again played.
And when he had played he looked at Fand. He saw into her heart, and into her brain.
“I have dreamed my dream,” he said; “but I am still Ulad the Wonder-Smith.”
With that he blew a frith across the palm of his left hand, and said this thing:—
“O woman that would not come to me, when I called out of that within me which is I myself, farewell!”
And with that Fand was a drift of white flowers there upon the deerskins.