'It is no phantasm--it is no hallucination,' I said, while my
breathing had become a spasmodic, choking gasp.
But when I remembered the vision of Fairy Glen, I said, 'Imagination
can do that, and so can the glamour cast over me by Sinfi's music. It
does not vanish; ah, if the sweet madness should remain with me for
ever! It does not vanish--it is gliding along the side of the llyn:
it is moving towards me. And now those sudden little ripples in the
llyn--what do they mean? The trout are flying from her shadow. The
feet are grating on the stones. And hark! that pebble which falls
into the water with a splash; the glassy llyn is ribbed and rippled
with rings. Can a phantom do that? It comes towards me still.
Hallucination!'
Still the vision came on.
When I felt the touch of her body, when I felt myself clasped in soft
arms, and felt falling on my face warm tears, and on my lips the
pressure of Winnie's lips--lips that were murmuring, 'At last, at
last!'--a strange, wild effect was worked within me. The reality of
the beloved form now in my arms declared itself; it brought back the
scene where I had last clasped it.
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