iadyomene that rose up to the waves through the
shadow of a fisher's boat?'

With an effort she set her eyes at his defiantly.

'It was not I. I? For what cause?'

'He called you.'

'I come for no man's call.'

Against her will her eyes fell.

'Look at me, Diadyomene; for an evil dream haunts me, and your eyes have
got it hid.'

'An evil dream!'

She laughed, but her breath came quick as again their looks encountered.

What she met in the steadfast grey eyes brought terror gathering to her
own. She shuddered and covered her face.

'An evil dream haunts _me_, and _your_ eyes have got it hid.'

He watched, dazed, and muttered: 'You--you.'

'What is it?--what is it?' she cried. 'Why have you brought it with you
out of season? It is like an air that I cannot breathe. Take it away!'

Never before had she shown so human a weakness, nor had she ever shown so
womanly fair. Her clear eyes dilated, her whole face quivered, and for an
instant a shadow of vague wistfulness crossed her fear. Her lover's heart
beat free of dreams, for a passion of tenderness responded to her need.

'Ah, Diadyomene, no! Can you so dream it, when, to keep all evil from
you, I would, God willing, enter hell?'

'May be,' she whispered, 'it is what you call hell I enter, every year
once, when my dream comes.'

Appalled he heard. 'You shall not, Diadyomene, you shall not! Come to me,
call me, and what heart of man can brave, by my soul I will, and keep you
safe.'

She found his eyes again, within them only love, and she rallied.

'It is only a dream,' she said. 'And yet to escape it I would give up
many choice moments of glorious sea life.'

She eyed him hard, and clenched her hands. 'I would give up,' she said,
'the strongest desire my heart now holds; ay, in the dear moment of its
fulfilment, I would give up even that, if so a certain night of the year
might pass ever dreamless and untroubled.'

'So would not I! though I think my dream cannot be less terrible than
yours; though I know my desire cannot be less dear. Diadyomene, what is
the desire of your heart?'

She would not say; and she meant with her downcast, shy eyes to mislead
him. But in vain: too humble was he to presume.

'Diadyomene, what is your dream?'

'I cannot tell,' she said, 'for it passes so that my brain holds but an
echo of it, and my heart dread. And what remains of it cannot be told,
for words are too poor and feeble to express it.'

He saw her thinkin