golden man who rode a golden horse, and made ready to shoot a golden
arrow. Only the arrow never left the bow, but pointed always to the
direction from which the wind blew--north from the mountains; east from
the sea; west from the plain; south from the waving forests.

Now the Archer looked very small from the court in front of the cathedral
because he was up so high in the air; so high, indeed, that often the
lightning passed through his body. In reality he was not small, but
life-size, and he had once been a man, but now he was a weather vane
because he had made a vow to dwell forever on the tower and show the
people from which direction came the life-bringing winds.

For the reason that he had a man's heart in his golden body, life was not
always easy for him up there in the high place, and his eyes would sweep
the far horizons in search of someone to companion him, but no living
thing passed by him but the beautiful sea-birds who had learned that his
golden arrow would never pierce their breasts--and so they loved him, and
perched upon his arm that drew the bow.

Even the winds were kind to him because he moved so easily at their
behest, but all winds were not alike to him who had the heart of a man.
When spring came and the breezes blew from the south, heavy with the
scent of magnolia, of lilacs, and blue violets, the heart of the Golden
Archer ached with a strange hurt out of vanished years that he couldn't
quite remember. When summer brought to him the delicious odor of grapes
and berries and strong bright flowers, he longed to go down from the
tower and wander after the fireflies' lanterns among the loaded vines, or
pillow his head on sweet hay and let the winds put him to sleep forever.

When autumn came, and the flying leaves, as golden as his own steed,