en the tiny rivulets
and swayed beneath his step and would have given way with him had he not
always leapt on in time with the sure-footedness of long custom. On up
long dry slopes, where he ran slowly but easily, conscious of his own
ease, though he could hear his deep-drawn breaths. Through patches of
moorland where the bracken clung about him or the furze pricked his
legs, as he was subconsciously aware without really noticing it. Once he
came vaulting over a granite wall, to find himself almost on top of a
blood-bull, with a ring in his nose and a curly fringe on his forehead
that showed clearly in the rising moonlight. Ishmael could see, too, his
wet glistening nose and dark eyes. The bull stayed still staring in
astonishment, and Ishmael hit his flank gaily in passing and ran on,
down a marshy bottom, over another wall and up the next slope. The glow
was brighter now because he was so much nearer, but in reality it had
subsided somewhat--its first fierce spurt had burnt itself out. Ishmael
began to go less easily--his breath rasped a little; but his sensations
were all pleasant--the pounding blood in his whole body ran sweetly, he
tingled with a glow that was enjoyable beyond anything he could have
imagined. He knew he must be in a deplorable condition; he could feel
the sweat running down his forehead into his eyes and his shirt clinging
to his body under his light coat. Up to the knees he was soaking wet,
and splashed with mud higher still; his clothes were torn by the
brambles, and so were his hands and face. He felt happy--happy, in spite
of the news that had come to him. At that moment his run seemed to him
to hold an epic quality--the physical aspect of things; the health and
strength he felt coursing through him, the delightful exhaustion that he
knew would follow so healthily and naturally, seemed the most important
things in the world. Let all else go but this....

He slowed up to a walk as he came to Angwin's farm, passed through the
dark yard, and through the gates into a field next the rickyard. It was
full of folk crowded in from all the countryside. The engine from
Penzance had come and was puffing and panting by the pond, sucking up
water with stertorous breaths; at every gasp it rocked with its own
intensity upon its wheels as it stood, sending out a pulsing shower of
sparks over the muddy water.

Seven ricks had blazed that night, and still smouldered sullenly. The
great grey hose played upon the