In a
second his thoughts were many thousand miles away. The night wind
cooled his brow, and he looked into the dark gap and saw his own past.
The first picture was a cold place on a low western island. Snow was
drifting sparsely, and a dull grey Atlantic swell was grumbling on the
reefs. He was crouching among the withered rushes, where seaweed and
shells had been blown, and snow lay in dirty patches. He felt the thick
collar of his shooting-coat tight about his neck, while the December
evening grew darker and colder. A gillie, who had no English, was lying
at his right hand, and far out at sea a string of squattering geese were
slowly drifting shorewards with the wind. He saw the scene clear in
every line, and he remembered the moment as if it had been yesterday, It
had been one of his periods of great exultation. He had just left
Oxford, and had fled northward after some weeks in Paris to wash out the
taste of civilization from his mouth among the island north-westers. He
had had a great day among the woodcock, and now was finishing with a
stalk after wild geese. He was furiously hungry, chilled and soaked to
the bone, but riotously happy. His future seemed to stretch before him,
a brighter continuation of a bright past, a time for high achievement,
bold work, and yet no surcease of pleasure. He had been master of
himself in that hour, his body firm and strong, his soul clear, his mind
a tempered weapon awaiting his hands.
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