He found the slowly moving stream he crossed yesterday; there he bathed; then he ate some of the food he had brought with him. Finally he walked down a path of silver-grey sand, skirting a wood of oaks.
It waxed very warm and still; there were no clouds; the air shimmered over the heather; white and little brown butterflies skipped over it; the island was veiled in a soft white haze with violet shadows in it. Snakes slid out into the open to sun themselves; the air was full of slanting gleams of gossamer and little drifting lives of insects that lived a day and never knew the night.
He sat among the pines and saw the brown lizards and the squirrels and watched the golden lights flit over the dry pine-needles; the boles of the trees shone red, and in among the far-off oaks was a mist of pale green.
In the afternoon he walked through the oak wood over dry leaves of last year, and cushions of bright emerald moss, set with scarlet, purple, and orange fungi.
At sunset he stood by a little clearing; it was near a ranger’s cottage. He could smell woodsmoke and see its swaying blue column rise above the thatched roof covered with stonecrop and little ferns. Here were rows of hives where lived the bees whose soft organ-like drone he had heard mingling with the ’cellos of the pines.
The sky was less brilliant than it had been the night before; it was bluish-white and the long slender clouds on the horizon were violet and pink. The sky grew paler and more pale; the silver of the evening star glimmered out, a tiny point of light. The pines were very dark; they looked black against the sky; a bat flickered over them.
He walked over the moor to the shore; he saw the ghost-white of the foam, and heard the rush and draw of the tide on the smooth pebbles. The moon was up when he walked back.
This night he did not try to sleep; not because he was worried and thoughtful; he had not thought all day, and he did not think all night. It was very still and cloudless, and the moon was full; when it set the sky was solemnest blue; the stars and the white fire made the mystery of space more wonderful. It was one of those nights which are living symbols of largest patience; of breadth that includes all things, of silence whose root is the wisdom that knows; of that mighty indifference that is indifferent because of its tenderness rather than its coldness. A night sky that was a symbol of a Holy Catholic Church of the entire universe; not tolerant—because, after all, tolerance is a little, narrow, patronising invention of man’s aggressive superiority. That which is all-inclusive is not tolerant; it is omnipotent, omniscient, Alpha and Omega; the first but also the last.
He did not think of these things; he never mused on such matters; he did not think at all that night nor notice anything particularly. He sat under the sky, his hands clasping his knees; he was not sleepy, because to be out of doors two days and nights after a life spent chiefly within walls is apt quite naturally to cause wakefulness.
He saw three shooting stars slide through the blue heart of the night. At dawn he saw a fox, a vixen, and four little furry creatures with sharp, bright eyes; they played together and rolled in the heather without fear of man. He began wandering through the wood looking for birds’ nests; he found four before the sun rose.