a measure under her eyes, and she did not see.’
‘She is dead,’ said the honey-bee, ‘for when she would not look upon me as before, I drew my sword and stung her sharply, but she did not stir. She sat and gazed into the distance where the smoke like a great gray web lieth heavy. She is surely dead.’
‘She is not dead,’ said the red weasel; ‘she hath been to the great city.’
‘Maybe there she hath found Death,’ said the shining fly, ‘for his web reacheth far, and he loveth the dark places and hidden ways. He hideth, too, in the cool arbors of the wood, stretching a gray chain for our undoing. Maybe she found Death. He spreadeth ropes of pearls across our path, and looketh upon us from the shade; when the dance is gayest he creepeth to spring. Maybe she hath reached for the pearls or hath danced into his net.’
And so the fly sang of the watcher in the wood, and his song I shall sing thee, lest thou grow weary of my prose:
