"The swamp roses, Gillie. It was the mare found them. She--if she hadn't run off--it was almost as if she meant me to see them." "Are you saying? . . ." "I don't know what I'm saying. Yes," she cried, a gay silliness taking her. Drunk with the music and the dancing, drunk with his closeness, she laughed up at him. It was just as in the stories, a kind of magic just like . . ." and then she stared at him, confounded. "Just like what?" "But in the stories . . ." "In the stories . . . what?" "In the stories . . ." "In the stories there's a prince," Gillie answered quietly. He held her away then. "So the story has come true."