He could count no further.
The wind, seeing his distress, soughed with a weird sweet sound like aeolian harps in the effort to comfort him, but he dropped the reins and laid his face in the hollow of his arm.
It was the attitude of a woman, grief-stricken.
He had evidently fallen into a lethargy of grief from which he must be aroused.
So thought the wind. It blew a great blast. It whistled loudly as if calling, calling, calling!
Was it the wind or his heart? Was it his Mother Nature, his Guardian Angel, or God?
Again pitifully, distinctly, wailingly, came the cry of the child.
He raised his head, grasped the reins and hurried.
On he went, on and on, faster and faster, until at last he came to the door of the tomb.
He descended into it. He took the child from the arms of Cyclona, who sat by the fire cuddling it, and held it close to his heart.