“I don’t know why I do it, but I must do it. For a time I thought of you five times a day as most blessed. You were heaven’s courtier, you were sailing on heaven’s ship! Now you are man like me, though older than me, and I see you need a friend. You thought you had so great a one—and then there was blackness! I’m nothing but Thomas Bettany, but I’ll set you at least on the Vineyard. Let’s say no more!”
The merchant rode away. The master goldsmith was left by the ruined farm in Wander forest.
He saw the red orb of the sun descend past boles of trees. It sank beneath the earth. All the west hung fire red, then the colour faded. “I will go now to sleep, and God knoweth I need it! When I come to London, or rather, I think, to France—”
Down he lay. Bettany’s cloak was thick, the leaves and moss a pleasant bed, soft dusk around, the forest a cradle with cradle song. “Sleep—sleep! Sleep—sleep!”
But sleep was at the antipodes. “This place—what is this place?”
“Bitter Shame, Very Anger, strengthen me! Let me not pity the witch! Let me not feel her misery mine! Let me not long to see her face, touch her, hold her!”
“Shall I desire the dragon that slew me? Shall I cherish Medusa? Burning—burning!”
He sprang to his feet and walked the wood, up and down, up and down. He moved with disordered steps, twigs and boughs striking him. The long June day left still a radiance.
He threw himself down and lay with face buried. Time dropped away, drop by drop, and each drop a world and an æon.