anks, under the hanging willow
branches, whence issued weird, plashing sounds. At every stroke she
perceived recesses full of sound; dark cavities which she hastened
to pass by; clusters and rows of trees, whose sombre masses were
continually changing form, stretching forward and apparently following
her from the summit of the bank. And when she threw herself on her back,
the depths of the heavens affected her still more. From the fields, from
the distant horizon, which she could no longer see, a solemn lingering
strain, composed of all the sighs of the night, was wafted to her.

She was not of a dreamy nature; it was physically, through the medium of
each of her senses, that she derived enjoyment from the sky, the river,
and the play of light and shadow. The river, in particular, bore her
along with endless caresses. When she swam against the current she was
delighted to feel the stream flow rapidly against her bosom and limbs.
She dipped herself in it yet more deeply, with the water reaching to her
lips, so that it might pass over her shoulders, and envelop her, from
chin to feet, with flying kisses. Then she would float, languid and
quiescent, on the surface, whilst the ripples glided softly between her
costume and her skin. And she would also roll over in the still pools
like a cat on a carpet; and swim from the luminous patches where
the moonbeams were bathing, to the dark water shaded by the foliage,
shivering the while, as though she had quitted a sunny plain and then
felt the cold from the boughs falling on her neck.

She now remained quite silent in the water, and would not allow Silvere
to touch her. Gliding softly by his side, she swam on with the light
rustling of a bird flying across the copse, or else she would circle
round him, a prey to vague disquietude which she did not comprehend.
He himself darted quickly away if he happened to brush against her.
The river was now but a source of enervating intoxication, voluptuous
languor, which disturbed them strangely. When they emerged from their
bath they felt dizzy, weary, and drowsy. Fortunately, the girl declared
one evening that she would bathe no more, as the cold water made the
blood run to her head. And it was in all truth and innocence that she
said this.

Then their long conversations began anew. The dangers to which the
innocence of their love had lately been exposed had left no other trace
in Silvere's mind than great admiration for Miette's physica