The voice of one of the Gang rose to his ears. It steadied him; recalling all that hung on him … old Ding-dong's trust … Nelson … Duty….
The track led round a corner—and ran away into nothing.
Retreat along that path or headlong death—these seemed his alternatives. Of the two the latter appeared just then least horrible, as swifter, and more certain: he had no need to look down to make sure of that.
Biting his nails, he listened to his own breathing. A tiny shell had become incrusted in the great blind face, so close to his own. Putting out his tongue, he licked it, and hardly knew he had.
Suddenly he saw his mother. She was sitting in her particular little low chair beside the fire in the Library, reading aloud a favourite passage from her favourite Sunday book, Gwen sprawling at her feet.
To go back is nothing but Death, came the familiar voice, pure and tranquil; to go forward is fear of Death, and life everlasting beyond it. I will yet go forward.
The book snapped softly; his mother's eyes lifted to his as she repeated,
I will yet go forward.
III
Yes, if there's a way!