ouse, and care.

_Sylvan_.
Let's have a better tale. You followed me.

_Katrina_.
Sylvan, how dare you make me out so vile?

_Sylvan_.
How dare you mean to make this body of mine
A thing with no thought in it but your beauty?

_Katrina_.
You shall not speak so wickedly. You've had
The half of my truth only: here's the whole.
It was from you I fled! I hoped to make
My grannam's lonely cottage something safe
From you and what I hated in you.

_Sylvan_.
Love?--
Ah, so it's all useless.

_Katrina_.
I feared to know
You wanted me,--horribly I feared it.
And now you've found me out.

_Sylvan_.
Is this the truth?--
No help for it, then.

_Katrina_.
O, I'm a liar to you!

_Sylvan_.
Strange how we grudge to be ruled! rather than be
Divinely driven to happiness, we push back
And fiercely try for wilful misery.--
Dearest, forgive me being cruel to you,
You who are in life like a heavenly dream
In the evil sleep of a sinner.

_Katrina_.
No, you hate me.

_Sylvan (kissing her)_.
Is this like hatred?

_Katrina (in his arms)_.
Sylvan, I have been
So wrencht and fearfully used. It was as if
This being that I live in had become
A savage endless water, wild with purpose
To tire me out and drown me.

_Sylvan_.
Yes, I know:
Like swimming against a mighty will, that wears
The cruelty, the race and scolding spray
Of monstrous passionate water.

_Katrina_.
Hold me, Sylvan
I'm bruised with my sore wrestling.

_Sylvan_.
Ah, but now
We are not swimmers in this dangerous life.
It cannot beat upon our limbs with surf
Of water clencht against us, nor can waves
Now wrangle with our breath. Out of it we
Are lifted; and henceforward now we are
Sailors travelling in a lovely ship,
The shining sails of it holding a wind
Immortally pleasant, and the malicious sea
Smoothed by a keel that cannot come to wreck.

_Katrina_.
Alas, we must not stay together here.
Grannam will come upon us.

_Sylvan_.
Where is she?

_Katrina_.
Yonder, gathering driftwood for her fire.
There is a little bay not far from here,
The shingle of it a thronging city of flies,
Feeding on the dead weed that mounds the beach;
And the sea hoards there its vain avarice,--
Old flotsam, and decaying trash of ships.
An arm of reef half locks it in, and holds
The bottom of the bay deep strewn with seaweed,
A barn full of the harvesting of storms;
And at full tide, the little hampered wav