Atalapha, a Winged Brownie 
coursing through his veins was tingling in its red- 
ness. His limbs, his wings—those magic wings 
that sightless yet could see—were vibrant with his 
life at its floodtide rush. His powers were in their 
flush. His coat responded, and the deep rich 
yellow brown that turned pale golden on his throat, 
and deepened into red on his shining shoulders, 
was glossed on his back with a purple sheen, while 
over all the color play was showered the silver 
of his frosting; like nightly stars on a shallow 
summer sea where the yellow tints of weeds gleamed 
through, it shone; and massing on his upper arm 
formed there a band of white that spanned his 
shoulders, sweeping down across his throat like a 
torc on the neck of some royal rover of the horde 
that harried Rome, the badge of his native excel- 
lence, the proof of his self-won fame. 
Rich indeed was his vestment now, but his con- 
scious pride was the great long-fingered pulsatory 
wings, reaching out to grasp huge handfuls of the 
blue-green night, reaching, bounding, throbbing, 
as they answered to the bidding of the lusty heart 
within. Whether as a bending bow to hurl him- 
self, its arrow, up toward the silent stars, or to 
sense like fine antennz every form or barricade, or 
change of heat or cold, or puff of air, yes, even hill 
or river far below, that crossed or neared his unseen 
190 
