Once he crossed a bare hilltop and for a moment caught a glimpse of the lonely glowing skylons—the Blue Lorraine, the Gray Twins, the Myrtle Y—but distant beyond reach, like a farewell.
He was near the end of his strength.
The sense of a destination grew overpoweringly strong.
Now it was something just around the next turn in the path.
He plunged through a giddy stretch of darkness thick as ink—and came to a desperate halt, digging in his heels, flailing his arms.
From somewhere, perhaps from deep within his own mind, came a faint echo of mocking laughter.
IV.
If you can look into the seeds of time,
And say which grain will grow and which will not—
Macbeth