And every day I went down to that perfect beach and sat from red dawn to red dusk staring westward, staring homeward. Every night she would come for me there, the honey-tongued, the round-limbed, and lead me back to her sweet bower. How I grew to hate that slow walk, the shaded night flowers and their rare attars, the elusive flashes of the lightning bugs… How could I resist? Beyond chivalry, beyond all warrior posturing (for certainly my long captivity would have excused much, though I would not), her strength exceeded mine, her wisdom surpassed all my vaunted cunning. But I knew the patience of the beast which waits and wants and is never reconciled, though the hearth be warm and the food rare, though the hand that holds the leash be gentle, be tender: is never reconciled, but watches always for the open gate, the untended door, and is sudden away. Though the years be long and mild between, still into the woods and the wilds is away.

Thus my vigil. Through seven long years a pampered pet I lived, but through the endless mild days I stayed upon the beach, and looked westward, and looked homeward…