t out from their folds and had wandered
up there in the dark where so oft she had led them before. And now the
mere bitterness of grief took the place of his wildness, and he let
his bow and arrow drop to earth, and cast himself down on to the
trodden ground & buried his face in his hands and moaned, and speedily
the images of his life to come and the sorrow he must face passed
through his soul, for he knew that she was gone, and either slain or
carried away to where he should never hear of her or see her again.

At last, that his grief and wanhope might not rend his heart and slay
him then and there, and lest all the deeds whereto he was fated should
be spoiled and undone, self-pity fell upon him with the sweet
remembrance of his love, and loosed the well of his tears, and he wept
and wept, and might not be satiated of his mourning a long while. But
when the night was yet dark and no sign of dawn in the sky, and, might
he have seen it, the south-west was driving the rack low adown along
the earth, he rose up slowly and gat his bow and arrows into his
hands, and weakly and stiffly, like a man who hath been long sick, he
fell to going along the riverside toward Wethermel, and his feet knew
the way though his eyes might see it not. And as he went, with the
wind whistling about his ears and the picture of Wethermel before his
eyes, he found that life was come again to him, and he was beginning
to think about what he should be doing to win some way back to the
love that had been rent from him. Ever and anon, forsooth, as he was
amidst such thoughts, the tears brake out from his eyes again, but
still now he could refrain them better and better after each outburst,
and he had no more wildness as erst, as if he were out of the world
and drifting he knew not whither or why; but now he knew which was
himself, and which was grief and pain.

It was but just the grey of the morning when he crept into the hall at
Wethermel, and found his bed and cast himself thereon, and, all undone
by weariness, fell asleep at once.

He awoke with the house astir about him, and arose and sat down to eat
with the others, and was no harsher of speech than his wont, albeit he
looked stark and stern; and to some it seemed as if he had aged ten
years since yestermorn, and they deemed that the death of the folk lay
heavy on him, as was like to be, and they said as few words to him as
might be, for his grief seemed aweful to them. But when they had eate