fell suddenly a silence. At last he was there—only a few trees blowing a little, a little white dust curling over the road, as though there had been no rain, and then suddenly the laughing face of Cards, no longer now a boy, but a man;, more handsome than ever, laughing at him as he battled round the corner.
Cards shouted something to him, suddenly the road was gone and Peter was in the water, fighting for his life. He felt all the breathless terror of approaching death—he was sinking—black, silent water rose above and around him. For an instant he caught once more the sight of sky and land. Cards was still on the road and beside him was a woman whose face Peter could not see. Cards was still laughing. Then in the darkening light the Grey Hill was visible against the horizon and instead of the Giant's Finger there was that figure of the rider on the lion. . . . The waters closed.. . . Peter woke to a grey, stormy morning. The sweat was pouring down his face, his body was burning hot and his hands were trembling.
II
When he came down to breakfast his head was aching and heavy and Mrs. Brockett's boiled eggs and hard crackling toast were impossible. Miss Monogue had things to tell him about the book—it was wonderful, tremendous . . . beyond everything that she had believed possible. But strangely enough, he was scarcely interested. He was pleased of course, but he was weighted with the sense of overhanging catastrophe. The green bulging curtains, the row of black beads about Mrs. Brockett's thin neck, the untidy egg-shells—everything depressed him.
“I have had a rotten night,” he said, “nightmares. I suppose I ate something—anyhow it's a gloomy day.”
“Yes,” said Miss Monogue, pinning some of her hair in at the wrong place and unpinning other parts of it that happened by accident to be right. “I'm afraid it's a poor sort of day for the Procession. But Miss Black and I are going to do our best to see it. It may clear up later.” He had forgotten about the Procession and he wished that she would keep her hair tidier.
