Tagore.
Feeling weak and completely overcome by so many conflicting emotions, Eric now began slowly to descend from the mighty height, with an intense and overpowering desire for rest and food.
He was entirely spent, knowing that he could not go much farther unless he found help in his need. This side of the mountain was much less steep than the other; it led down by soft green inclines to the happy land he saw calling to him from below.
Snow and winter, rocks and wilderness were now a thing of the past; this was quite another world, smiling and at peace.
With stumbling feet he dragged himself along.
All zest of having won was wiped out and gone. He only felt an aching longing for the little companion who had abandoned him in the hour of attainment.
Was this for ever the way of the weary earth? Were all victories so sad? He had also an unceasing desire for the voice of his old friend the hermit, knowing that he would have been able to explain what was but dark mystery to his searching mind.
He had the sensation of being completely forsaken and useless, a weary, weary stranger who had no home in this world. As he was pondering, sadly discouraged, both body and mind overwrought with fatigue, he saw the wings of the falcon waving before him, beckoning to him like some trusted friend; and this, at least, gave him a feeling of not being entirely forgotten.
So on he plodded, each limb stiff and painful, his unhealed wounds throbbing like tormented hearts, the hand at his side empty and lonely, missing the confiding touch of the childish fingers.