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The
sun
had
set
beyond
Herstane
Craig
before
he
turned
his
steps
.
Now
from
the
hilltops
he
had
Melanudrigill
before
him
,
a
distant
shadow
in
the
trough
of
the
valley
.
Since
that
afternoon
in
Paradise
awe
of
the
Wood
had
left
him
.
He
had
been
among
its
pines
and
had
found
Katrine
there
.
He
watched
the
cloud
of
trees
,
growing
nearer
at
each
step
,
as
earlier
that
day
he
had
watched
the
environs
of
Calidon
.
It
was
her
haunt
;
haply
she
might
now
be
there
,
singing
in
the
scented
twilight
?
When
he
stood
above
Reiverslaw
the
dusk
was
purple
about
him
,
and
the
moon
,
almost
at
her
full
,
was
climbing
the
sky
.
He
longed
to
see
how
Paradise
looked
in
this
elfin
light
,
for
he
had
a
premonition
that
the
girl
might
have
lingered
there
late
and
that
he
would
meet
her
.
There
was
no
duty
to
take
him
home
-
-
nothing
but
Isobel
’
s
silly
fables
.
But
in
deference
to
Isobel
he
took
the
omens
.
He
sent
his
staff
twirling
into
the
air
.
If
it
fell
with
the
crook
towards
him
,
he
would
go
home
.
The
thing
lighted
in
a
heather
bush
with
the
crook
at
the
far
end
.
So
he
plunged
downhill
among
the
hazels
,
making
for
the
glade
which
slanted
eastward
towards
the
deserted
mill
.
He
found
it
,
and
it
was
very
dark
in
that
narrow
place
.
There
was
no
light
to
see
the
flowers
by
,
and
there
was
no
colour
in
it
,
only
a
dim
purple
gloom
and
the
white
of
the
falling
stream
,
for
the
moon
was
still
too
low
in
the
heavens
to
reach
it
.
In
time
he
came
to
the
high
bank
where
the
pines
began
.
He
was
looking
for
Paradise
,
but
he
could
not
find
it
.
It
was
not
among
the
pines
,
he
remembered
,
but
among
the
oaks
and
hazels
,
but
he
had
gone
to
it
through
the
pines
,
led
by
a
flitting
girl
.
.
.
.
He
found
the
point
where
he
had
entered
the
darker
Wood
,
and
resolved
to
try
to
retrace
his
former
tracks
.
The
place
was
less
murky
than
he
had
expected
,
for
the
moon
was
now
well
up
the
sky
,
so
that
every
glade
was
a
patch
of
white
light
.
.
.
.
This
surely
was
the
open
space
where
he
had
first
caught
the
glimmer
of
a
green
gown
.
.
.
.
There
were
the
rocks
where
she
had
stood
at
bay
.
.
.
.
She
had
led
him
down
the
hill
and
then
at
a
slant
-
-
but
was
it
to
right
or
left
?
Right
,
he
thought
,
and
plunged
through
a
wilderness
of
fern
.
There
had
been
briars
,
too
,
and
this
was
surely
the
place
where
a
vast
uprooted
trunk
had
forced
them
to
make
a
detour
.
Then
he
found
a
little
stream
which
he
fancied
might
be
the
outflow
of
the
Paradise
well
.
So
he
turned
up
hill
again
,
and
came
into
a
jungle
of
scrub
and
boulder
.
There
was
in
most
places
a
dim
light
to
move
by
,
but
a
dim
light
in
a
broken
wood
is
apt
to
confuse
the
mind
.
David
had
soon
lost
all
sense
of
direction
,
save
that
of
the
upward
and
downward
slopes
.
He
did
not
know
east
or
west
,
and
he
did
not
stop
to
think
,
for
he
was
beginning
to
be
mesmerized
by
the
hour
and
the
scene
.
Dew
was
in
the
air
and
an
overpowering
sweetness
of
fern
and
pine
and
mosses
,
and
through
the
aisles
of
the
high
trees
came
a
shimmer
of
palest
gold
,
and
in
the
open
spaces
the
moon
rode
in
the
dusky
blue
heavens
-
-
not
the
mild
moon
of
April
,
but
a
fiery
conquering
goddess
,
driving
her
chariot
among
trampled
stars
.
It
was
clear
to
him
that
he
would
not
find
Paradise
except
by
happy
chance
,
since
he
was
utterly
out
of
his
bearings
.
But
he
was
content
to
be
lost
,
for
the
whole
place
was
Paradise
.
Never
before
had
he
felt
so
strong
a
natural
magic
.
This
woodland
,
which
he
had
once
shunned
,
had
become
a
holy
place
,
lit
with
heavenly
lights
and
hallowed
by
some
primordial
peace
.
He
had
forgotten
about
the
girl
,
forgotten
his
scruples
.
In
that
hour
he
had
acquired
a
mood
at
once
serene
and
gay
:
he
had
the
light
-
heartedness
of
a
boy
and
the
ease
of
a
wise
philosopher
;
his
body
seemed
as
light
as
air
,
and
,
though
he
had
already
walked
some
twenty
miles
,
he
felt
as
if
he
had
just
risen
from
his
bed
.
But
there
was
no
exuberance
in
him
,
and
he
had
not
the
impulse
to
sing
which
usually
attended
his
seasons
of
high
spirits
.
.
.
.
The
silence
struck
upon
him
as
something
at
once
miraculous
and
just
.
There
was
not
a
sound
in
the
Wood
-
-
not
the
lightest
whisper
of
wind
,
though
there
had
been
a
breeze
on
the
hilltops
at
sundown
-
-
not
the
cry
of
a
single
bird
-
-
not
a
rustle
in
the
undergrowth
.
The
place
was
dumb
-
-
not
dead
,
but
sleeping
.
Suddenly
he
came
into
a
broad
glade
over
which
the
moonshine
flowed
like
a
tide
.
It
was
all
of
soft
mossy
green
,
without
pebble
or
bush
to
break
its
carpet
,
and
in
the
centre
stood
a
thing
like
an
altar
.
At
first
he
thought
it
was
only
a
boulder
dropped
from
the
hill
.
But
as
he
neared
it
he
saw
that
it
was
human
handiwork
.
Masons
centuries
ago
had
wrought
on
it
,
for
it
was
roughly
squared
,
and
firmly
founded
on
a
pediment
.
