When they are hushed wilt thou return
To bless the close of day?

"In that still hour come back to me,
And find thy longed-for rest.
Poor petal blown too near the sun,
Float downward to my breast."

"Ah," cried Felice, "it is my old Love."

"My love for thee is older than the moon," said the Golden Archer. "Can
you not rest by our hearth?"

Then she knelt by him and pressed her face against his knees. And his
heart grew as heavy as a weary dream before a sultry dawn when the
thunder hangs in the hills. Her grief weighed all the more upon him
because he knew she was trying to love him; and when that hour of effort
comes death is under its cloak.

But the next day she was cheerful and sang about her tasks. The Golden
Archer saddled his horse and rode miles through the forest upon the crisp
red leaves; and he knew that goodness would not hold her, nor kindness,
nor fidelity, nor service, for love like hers is held prisoner to nothing
once its wings are outstretched, nor does it know good from evil.

[Illustration: THE GOLDEN ARCHER AND FELICE]

When he rode home the stars were peeping through the forest branches, and
the white owls were flying. But the frost that silvered the red leaves
was not so sharp and glistening as the memory of her tears.