she had lost. She must return bare-headed. She had reached the door; and there she waved him a farewell.
"Goldfish!" he cried.
She halted.
"Goldfish, come here; one—one word only."
She hesitated whether to yield. The man was dangerous. But she considered that with a few strides he might overtake her if she tried to escape. Therefore she returned toward him, but came not near enough for him to touch her.
"Hearken to me," said he. "It may be as you say. It is as you say. You have your world; I have mine. You could not live in mine, nor I in yours." But his voice thrilled. "Swear to me—swear to me now—that while I live no other shall hold you, as I would have held you, to his side; that no other shall take your hair and wind it round him, as I have—I could not endure that. Will you swear to me that?—and you shall go."
"Indeed I will; indeed, indeed I will."
"Beware how you break this oath. Let him beware who dares to seek you." He was silent, looking on the ground, his arms folded. So he stood for some minutes, lost in thought. Then suddenly he cried out, "Goldfish!"
He had found a single hair, long—a yard long—of the most intense red-gold, lustrous as a cloud in the west over the sunken sun. It had been left about his arm and hand.
"Goldfish!"
But she was gone.
