She rose, and stretched out her hand, and led him to the slope of a green hill dotted with juniper bushes. To us, who watch, the scene may suggest an ancient map, with stiff little trees pictured in black upon a yellow ground, dolphins riding the sea, and at the base of this particular hill three words of flowing script to tell us that here a spring gushes. It pleased Ogo, when he had quenched his thirst at this spring, to climb the hillside in search of he knew not what. Perhaps it was in his mind, though not in his consciousness, that a man might lie up there, in the shadow of a juniper bush, and be secure from a surprise attack. He was glad to be out of reach of those tall forest trees, and took pleasure in the fading brightness that lay on the grassy slope. Each small blade and spear cast its individual shadow—faint pencillings on a green and golden quilt. Ogo and Wooma lay quiet in each other’s arms, forgetful of danger. A rabbit, within a spear’s length of the bush that sheltered them, came out of his burrow and listened. The shadow of the bush grew longer. It was the hour of stillness and mellowing light, the pause between day and dark, when colours deepen under the varnish of sunset, and the voices of birds, calling infrequently a belated phrase, assume the clarity and remoteness of familiar legend. In the west, the gold of the sky gradually darkened to red. The sun spilled himself on the horizon. For a moment the lovers turned from each other to stare at this dying and immortal majesty. To Ogo the sight was full of meaning and portent, as always; but now a hint of new meaning was mingled with the old. An emotion stirred in him that was neither fear nor desire. His child mind became full of questions, and in this woman, or in something that made this woman mysteriously himself, he seemed to find the hint of an answer. In the having of her there was not only pleasure and power, but a third joy, release; and these three now were fused for Ogo in the emotion that man, in later childhood, has called beauty. Ogo laid a light hand on her bosom, then pointed towards the sky, trying to express his sense of some quality shared by these two objects of his love. But the thought, the feeling, was inarticulate. Responding to his caress, Wooma grinned lovingly. His face remained grave, his eyes full of the question that filled his heart. He was aware of a vital need: he wanted to give himself utterly to this woman, to pour out his life at her feet as the sun-god poured the blood of his splendour on the far edge of the world.
He came very close to her and spoke in her ear. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You are my woman. You are Ogo and I am Wooma. Listen. I will tell you my name.’