therewithall they parted after more talk concerning small matters, and ralph wore through the day, but richard again did him to wit, that on the morrow he would find his old friends of swevenham in the market. and ralph was come to life again more than he had been since that evil hour in the desert; though hard and hard he deemed it that he should never see his love again.

now as befalleth young men, he was a good sleeper, and dreamed but seldom, save such light and empty dreams as he might laugh at, if perchance he remembered them by then his raiment was on him in the morning. but that night him-seemed that he awoke in his chamber at whitwall, and was lying on his bed, as he verily was, and the door of the chamber opened, and there entered quietly the lady of the woodland, dight even as he had seen her as she lay dead beside their cooking fire on that table of greensward in the wilderness, barefoot and garlanded about her brow and her girdlestead, but fair and fresh coloured as she was before the sword had pierced her side; and he thought that he rejoiced to see her, but no wild hope rose in his heart, and no sobbing passion blinded his eyes, nor did he stretch out hand to touch her, because he remembered that she was dead. but he thought she spake to him and said: "i know that thou wouldst have me speak, therefore i say that i am come to bid thee farewell, since there was no farewell between us in the wilderness, and i know that thou are about going on a long and hard and perilous journey: and i would that i could kiss thee and embrace thee, but i may not, for this is but the image of me as thou hast known me. furthermore, as i loved thee when i saw thee first, for thy youth, and thy fairness, and thy kindness and thy valiancy, so now i rejoice that all this shall endure so long in thee, as it surely shall."

then the voice ceased, but still the image stood before him awhile, and he wondered if she would speak again, and tell him aught of the way to the well at the world's end; and she spake again: "nay," she said, "i cannot, since we may not tread the way together hand in hand; and this is part of the loss that thou hast had of me; and oh! but it is hard and hard." and her face became sad and distressful, and she turned and departed as she had come.

then he knew not if he awoke, or if it were a change in his dream; but the chamber became dark about him, and he lay there thinking of her, till, as it seemed, day began to dawn, and there was some little stir in the world without, and the new wind moved the casement. and again the door opened, and someone entered as before; and this also was a woman: green-clad she was and barefoot, yet he knew at once that it was not his love that was dead, but the damsel of the ale-house of bourton, whom he had last seen by the wantways of the wood perilous, and he thought her wondrous fair, fairer than he had deemed. and the word came from her: "i am a sending of the woman whom thou hast loved, and i should not have been here save she had sent me." then the words ended, while he looked at her and wondered if she also had died on the way to the well at the world's end. and it came into his mind that he had never known her name upon the earth. then again came the word: "so it is that i am not dead but alive in the world, though i am far away from this land; and it is good that thou shouldst go seek the well at the world's end not all alone: and the seeker may find me: and whereas thou wouldst know my name, i hight dorothea."

so fell the words again: and this image stood awhile as the other had done, and as the other had done, departed, and once more the chamber became dark, so that ralph could not so much as see where was the window, and he knew no more till he woke in the early morn, and there was stir in the street and the voice of men, and the scent of fresh herbs and worts, and fruits; for it was market-day, and the country folk were early afoot, that they might array their wares timely in the market-place.