Her triumph was short…lived。
Unfortunately for her； King Heremon had always been a patron of the
arts and science of his period。 Among his friends were to be
reckoned magicians； genii； the Nine Korrigans or Fays of Brittany
all sorts of parties capable of exerting influence； and； as events
proved； only too willing。 Ambassadors waited upon Queen Harbundia；
and Harbundia； even had she wished； as on many previous occasions；
to stand by her favourite； had no alternative。 The fairy Malvina
was called upon to return to Prince Gerbot his proper body and all
therein contained。
She flatly refused。 A self…willed； obstinate fairy； suffering from
swelled head。 And then there was that personal note。 Merely that
he should marry the Princess Berchta！ She would see King Heremon；
and Anniamus； in his silly old wizard's robe； and the Fays of
Brittany； and all the rest of them！ A really nice White Lady may
not have cared to finish the sentence； even to herself。 One
imagines the flash of the fairy eye； the stamp of the fairy foot。
What could they do to her； any of them； with all their clacking of
tongues and their wagging of heads？ She； an immortal fairy！ She
would change Prince Gerbot back at a time of her own choosing。 Let
them attend to their own tricks and leave her to mind hers。 One
pictures long walks and talks between the distracted Harbundia and
her refractory favouriteappeals to reason； to sentiment： 〃For my
sake。〃 〃Don't you see？〃 〃After all； dear； and even if he did。〃
It seems to have ended by Harbundia losing all patience。 One thing
there was she could do that Malvina seems either not to have known
of or not to have anticipated。 A solemn meeting of the White Ladies
was convened for the night of the midsummer moon。 The place of
meeting is described by the ancient chroniclers with more than their
usual exactitude。 It was on the land that the magician Kalyb had；
ages ago； raised up above all Brittany to form the grave of King
Taramis。 The 〃Sea of the Seven Islands〃 lay to the north。 One
guesses it to be the ridge formed by the Arree Mountains。 〃The Lady
of the Fountain〃 appears to have been present； suggesting the deep
green pool from which the river D'Argent takes its source。 Roughly
speaking； one would place it halfway between the modern towns of
Morlaix and Callac。 Pedestrians； even of the present day； speak of
the still loneliness of that high plateau； treeless； houseless； with
no sign of human hand there but that high； towering monolith round
which the shrill winds moan incessantly。 There； possibly on some
broken fragment of those great grey stones； Queen Harbundia sat in
judgment。 And the judgment wasand from it there was no appeal…
…that the fairy Malvina should be cast out from among the community
of the White Ladies of Brittany。 Over the face of the earth she
should wander； alone and unforgiven。 Solemnly from the book of the
roll…call of the White Ladies the name of Malvina was struck out for
ever。
The blow must have fallen upon Malvina as heavily as it was
unexpected。 Without a word； without one backward look； she seems to
have departed。 One pictures the white； frozen face； the wide…open；
unseeing eyes； the trembling； uncertain steps； the groping hands；
the deathlike silence clinging like grave…clothes round about her。
From that night the fairy Malvina disappears from the book of the
chroniclers of the White Ladies of Brittany； from legend and from
folklore whatsoever。 She does not appear again in history till the
year A。D。 1914。
II。 HOW IT CAME ABOUT。
It was on an evening towards the end of June； 1914； that Flight
Commander Raffleton； temporarily attached to the French Squadron
then harboured at Brest； received instructions by wireless to return
at once to the British Air Service Headquarters at Farnborough； in
Hampshire。 The night； thanks to a glorious full moon； would afford
all the light he required； and young Raffleton determined to set out
at once。 He appears to have left the flying ground just outside the
arsenal at Brest about nine o'clock。 A little beyond Huelgoat he
began to experience trouble with the carburettor。 His idea at first
was to push on to Lannion； where he would be able to secure expert
assistance； but matters only getting worse； and noticing beneath him
a convenient stretch of level ground； he decided to descend and
attend to it himself。 He alighted without difficulty and proceeded
to investigate。 The job took him； unaided； longer than he had
anticipated。 It was a warm； close night； with hardly a breath of
wind； and when he had finished he was feeling hot and tired。 He had
drawn on his helmet and was on the point of stepping into his seat；
when the beauty of the night suggested to him that it would be
pleasant； before starting off again； to stretch his legs and cool
himself a little。 He lit a cigar and looked round about him。
The plateau on which he had alighted was a table…land standing high
above the surrounding country。 It stretched around him； treeless；
houseless。 There was nothing to break the lines of the horizon but
a group of gaunt grey stones； the remains； so he told himself； of
some ancient menhir； common enough to the lonely desert lands of
Brittany。 In general the stones lie overthrown and scattered； but
this particular specimen had by some strange chance remained
undisturbed through all the centuries。 Mildly interested； Flight
Commander Raffleton strolled leisurely towards it。 The moon was at
its zenith。 How still the quiet night must have been was impressed
upon him by the fact that he distinctly heard； and counted； the
strokes of a church clock which must have been at least six miles
away。 He remembers looking at his watch and noting that there was a
slight difference between his own and the church time。 He made it
eight minutes past twelve。 With the dying away of the last
vibrations of the distant bell the silence and the solitude of the
place seemed to return and settle down upon it with increased
insistence。 While he was working it had not troubled him； but
beside the black shadows thrown by those hoary stones it had the
effect almost of a presence。 It was with a sense of relief that he
contemplated returning to his machine and starting up his engine。
It would whir and buzz and give back to him a comfortable feeling of
life and security。 He would walk round the stones just once and
then be off。 It was wonderful how they had defied old Time。 As
they had been placed there； quite possibly ten thousand years ago；
so they still stood； the altar of that vast； empty sky…roofed
temple。 And while he was gazing at them； his cigar between his
lips； struggling with a strange forgotten impulse that was tugging
at his knees； there came from the very heart of the great grey
stones the measured rise and fall of a soft； even breathing。
Young Raffleton frankly confesses that his first impulse was to cut
and run。 Only his soldier's training kept his feet firm on the
heather。 Of course； the explanation was simple。 Some animal had
made the place its nest。 But then what animal was ever known to
sleep so soundly as not to be disturbed by human footsteps？ If
wounded； and so unable to escape； it would not be breathing with
that quiet； soft regularity； contrasting so strangely with the
stillness and the silence all round。 Possibly an owl's nest。 Young
owlets make that sort of noisethe 〃snorers；〃 so country people
call them。 Young Raffleton threw away his cigar and went down upon
his knees to grope among the shadows； and； doing so； he touched
something warm and soft and yielding。
But it wasn't an owl。 He must have touched her very lightly； for
even then she did not wake。 She lay there with her head upon her
arm。 And now close to her； his eyes growing used to the shadows； he
saw her quite plainly； the wonder of the parted lips； the gleam of
the white limbs beneath their flimsy covering。
Of course； what he ought to have done was to have risen gently and
moved away。 Then he could have coughed。 And if that did not wake
her he might have touched her lightly； say； on the shoulder； and
have called to her； first softly； then a little louder；
〃Mademoiselle；〃 or 〃Mon enfant。〃 Even better； he might have stolen
away on tiptoe and left her there sleeping。
This idea does not seem to have occurred to him。 One makes the
excuse for him that he was but three…and…twenty； that； framed in the
purple moonlight； she seemed to him the most beautiful creature his
eyes had ever seen。 And then there was the brooding mystery of it
all； that atmosphere of far…off primeval times from which the roots
of life still draw their sap。 One takes it he forgot that he was
Flight Commander Raffleton； officer and gentleman； forgot the proper
etiquette applying to the case of ladies found sleeping upon lonely
moors without a chaperon。 Greater still； the possibility that he
never thought of anything at all； but； just impelled by a power
beyond himself； bent down and kissed her。
Not a platonic kiss upon the brow； not a brotherly kiss upon the
cheek； but a kiss full upon the parted lips； a kiss of worship and
amazement； su