For there they were tramping along the dark road going west, with the stars shining down brightly, and, save the distant barking of a dog, all most mournfully still.
Pan made another attempt at conversation.
“Won’t my father be wild because he arn’t got me to hit?”
Syd was too deep in his own thoughts to reply, for he was picturing the library at the Heronry, and his father and uncle talking together after returning from a vain pursuit. He could picture their florid faces and shining silvery hair by the light of the wax candles. He even seemed to see how many broad wrinkles there were in his father’s forehead as he stood frowning; and then something seemed to be asking the boy what he was doing there.
“Getting tired, Master Syd?” said Pan, after a long pause, filled by the beat beat of their footsteps.
But still there was no answer. The latter question took too much study, and suggested other questions in its unanswerable-ness.
Where was he going? and why was he going? and why had he chosen this road, which led toward the great forest with its endless trees and bogs?
Sydney could not answer these questions, and by way of relieving the buzzing worry in his own brain, he turned to Pan and became a questioner.
“Where are we going to sleep to-night?”
“Eh?”