of the mountains rising and falling ahead to the south, dark with pines. But a laziness, almost an indifference, possessed him—the strange influence that had been with him since the ceasing of the rain. It had left him in the excitement of the chase; now it was with him again, a vague weariness, an indolence. He looked about him. The plateau, ringed with a circle of pines, fell off toward the centre in a gentle depression. In the depression was the spring, bubbling up silvery among the cress. The little stream wound lazily for a few feet, then tumbled abruptly over a mossy log in miniature cataract. About it the grass was lush and high, and in the grass flowers peeped—pink flowers, like small roses, and blue ones, like eyes. The grass looked very thick and very soft. He sat down.
And then immediately, sudden as a blow, there came to him the realisation that he was outside. He was out in the open.
He had been out for three weeks; three weeks before he had passed forever outside of the
