n across the place where the heart of the
moon had been, obliterating it altogether. The white fragments pulsed
up and down, and could not find where to go, apart and brilliant on the
water like the petals of a rose that a wind has blown far and wide.

Yet again, they were flickering their way to the centre, finding the
path blindly, enviously. And again, all was still, as Birkin and Ursula
watched. The waters were loud on the shore. He saw the moon regathering
itself insidiously, saw the heart of the rose intertwining vigorously
and blindly, calling back the scattered fragments, winning home the
fragments, in a pulse and in effort of return.

And he was not satisfied. Like a madness, he must go on. He got large
stones, and threw them, one after the other, at the white-burning
centre of the moon, till there was nothing but a rocking of hollow
noise, and a pond surged up, no moon any more, only a few broken flakes
tangled and glittering broadcast in the darkness, without aim or
meaning, a darkened confusion, like a black and white kaleidoscope
tossed at random. The hollow night was rocking and crashing with noise,
and from the sluice came sharp, regular flashes of sound. Flakes of
light appeared here and there, glittering tormented among the shadows,
far off, in strange places; among the dripping shadow of the willow on
the island. Birkin stood and listened and was satisfied.

Ursula was dazed, her mind was all gone. She felt she had fallen to the
ground and was spilled out, like water on the earth. Motionless and
spent she remained in the gloom. Though even now she was aware,
unseeing, that in the darkness was a little tumult of ebbing flakes of
light, a cluster dancing secretly in a round, twining and coming
steadily together. They were gathering a heart again, they were coming
once more into being. Gradually the fragments caught together
re-united, heaving, rocking, dancing, falling back as in panic, but
working their way home again persistently, making semblance of fleeing
away when they had advanced, but always flickering nearer, a little
closer to the mark, the cluster growing mysteriously larger and
brighter, as gleam after gleam fell in with the whole, until a ragged
rose, a distorted, frayed moon was shaking upon the waters again,
re-asserted, renewed, trying to recover from its convulsion, to get
over the disfigurement and the agitation, to be whole and composed, at
peace.

Birkin lingered vaguely by the wa