'Come,' she said in a voice that had the music of all the bells of his flock--'come, thou art not to worship me, who am no goddess, but if thou art truthful and dutiful I will abide with thee.'
Haita seized her hand, and stammering his joy and gratitude arose, and hand in hand they stood and smiled into each other's eyes. He gazed on her with reverence and rapture. He said: 'I pray thee, lovely maid, tell me thy name and whence and why thou comest.'
At this she laid a warning finger on her lip and began to withdraw. Her beauty underwent a visible alteration that made him shudder, he knew not why, for still she was beautiful. The landscape was dark-ened by a giant shadow sweeping across the valley with the speed of a vulture. In the obscurity the maiden's figure grew dim and indistinct and her voice seemed to come from a distance, as she said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach: 'Presumptuous and ungrateful youth! must I then so soon leave thee?
Would nothing do but thou must at once break the eternal compact?'
Inexpressibly grieved, Haita fell upon his knees and implored her to remain--rose and sought her in the deepening darkness--ran in circles, calling to her aloud, but all in vain. She was no longer visible, but out of the gloom he heard her voice saying: 'Nay, thou shalt not have me by seeking.
Go to thy duty, faithless shepherd, or we shall never meet again.'
Night had fallen; the wolves were howling in the hills and the terrified sheep crowding about Haita's feet. In the demands of the hour he forgot his disappointment, drove his sheep to the fold and repairing to the place of worship poured out his heart in gratitude to Hastur for permitting him to save his flock, then retired to his cave and slept.
When Haita awoke the sun was high and shone in at the cave, illuminating it with a great glory. And there, beside him, sat the maiden. She smiled upon him with a smile that seemed the visible music of his pipe of reeds. He dared not speak, fearing to offend her as before, for he knew not what he could venture to say.
'Because,' she said, 'thou didst thy duty by the flock, and didst not forget to thank Hastur for stay-ing the wolves of the night, I am come to thee again.
Wilt thou have me for a companion?'
'Who would not have thee for ever?' replied Haita. 'Oh! never again leave me until--until I--change and become silent and motionless.'
Haita had no word for death.
'I wish, indeed,' he continued, 'that thou wert of my own ***, that we might wrestle and run races and so never tire of being together.'
At these words the maiden arose and passed out of the cave, and Haita, springing from his couch of fragrant boughs to overtake and detain her, observed to his astonishment that the rain was falling and the stream in the middle of the valley had come out of its banks. The sheep were bleating in terror, for the rising waters had invaded their fold. And there was danger for the unknown cities of the distant plain.
It was many days before Haita saw the maiden again. One day he was returning from the head of the valley, where he had gone with ewe's milk and oat cake and berries for the holy hermit, who was too old and feeble to provide himself with food.
'Poor old man!' he said aloud, as he trudged along homeward. 'I will return to-morrow and bear him on my back to my own dwelling, where I can care for him. Doubtless it is for this that Hastur has reared me all these many years, and gives me health and strength.'
As he spoke, the maiden, clad in glittering gar-ments, met him in the path with a smile that took away his breath.
'I am come again,' she said, 'to dwell with thee if thou wilt now have me, for none else will. Thou mayest have learned wisdom, and art willing to take me as I am, nor care to know.'
Haita threw himself at her feet. 'Beautiful being,'
he cried, 'if thou wilt but deign to accept all the de-votion of my heart and soul--after Hastur be served--it is thine for ever. But, alas! thou art capricious and wayward. Before to-morrow's sun I may lose thee again. Promise, I beseech thee, that however in my ignorance I may offend, thou wilt forgive and remain always with me.'
Scarcely had he finished speaking when a troop of bears came out of the hills, racing toward him with crimson mouths and fiery eyes. The maiden again vanished, and he turned and fled for his life.
Nor did he stop until he was in the cot of the holy hermit, whence he had set out. Hastily barring the door against the bears he cast himself upon the ground and wept.
'My son,' said the hermit from his couch of straw, freshly gathered that morning by Haita's hands, 'it is not like thee to weep for bears--tell me what sorrow hath befallen thee, that age may minister to the hurts of youth with such balms as it hath of its wisdom.'
Haita told him all: how thrice he had met the radiant maid and thrice she had left him forlorn.
He related minutely all that had passed between them, omitting no word of what had been said.
When he had ended, the holy hermit was a mo-ment silent, then said: 'My son, I have attended to thy story, and I know the maiden. I have myself seen her, as have many. Know, then, that her name, which she would not even permit thee to inquire, is Happiness. Thou saidst the truth to her, that she is capricious, for she imposeth conditions that man cannot fulfil, and delinquency is punished by de-sertion. She cometh only when unsought, and will not be questioned. One manifestation of curiosity, one sign of doubt, one expression of misgiving, and she is away! How long didst thou have her at any time before she fled?'
'Only a single instant,' answered Haita, blushing with shame at the confession. 'Each time I drove her away in one moment.'
'Unfortunate youth!' said the holy hermit, 'but for thine indiscretion thou mightst have had her for two.'
