And as Miltoun followed the wispy line of grey path
cleaving the dim glamour of daisies and buttercups, there came to him
the feeling that he was in the presence, not of sleep, but of eternal
waiting. The sound of his footfalls seemed desecration. So devotional
was that hush, burning the spicy incense of millions of leaves and
blades of grass.
Crossing the last stile he came out, close to her deserted cottage,
under her lime-tree, which on the night of Courtier's adventure had hung
blue-black round the moon. On that side, only a rail, and a few shrubs
confined her garden.
The house was all dark, but the many tall white flowers, like a bright
vapour rising from earth, clung to the air above the beds. Leaning
against the tree Miltoun gave himself to memory.
From the silent boughs which drooped round his dark figure, a little
sleepy bird uttered a faint cheep; a hedgehog, or some small beast of
night, rustled away in the grass close by; a moth flew past, seeking
its candle flame. And something in Miltoun's heart took wings after it,
searching for the warmth and light of his blown candle of love. Then,
in the hush he heard a sound as of a branch ceaselessly trailed through
long grass, fainter and fainter, more and more distinct; again fainter;
but nothing could he see that should make that homeless sound. And the
sense of some near but unseen presence crept on him, till the hair moved
on his scalp.
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