His love for this young girl was like a great wind passing through a house, clashing and clanging casements and doors. If he sheltered from it assuredly he would perish. He would soon be ill in body as now he was sick in mind. One hour a night he rode down to the Pool, and for that one hour he endured the day.
She was making him mad. She walked with him on tops of mountains. She led him by the hand into cavernous places awful with lightnings. She sat on the lips of Spring, dropping blossoms through her fingers. She was a perfume from the East. She was a wine from a land of grapes. The dreams of a world looked from her eyes. The passions of a world waited on her lips....
The sun had set and but a minute of time gone. In another such instant darkness would have dashed a mantle round the earth, and the stars would have leapt out of the sky. The way to the bottom was stony. He must be home....
Day had done its business and departed, and he sat wringing hands as it rushed away. Not again—if he would call himself man to-morrow.
Good-bye. It had a hollow sound. Good-bye—never again to see her. To ride no more the road to the river. To forget October brought blossoms to the castor-oil tree. To clap shut his ears when her voice called....
The descent was rougher than the climb. Was he bruising his hands because the day had darkened, or because dark had come down on his hope?...
Once more to saddle his horse. Once more to take the road to the Pool. Once to say good-bye.