He was not even relieved at putting Dalquharter behind him.

The atmosphere of that unhallowed place lay still on his soul.

He hated it, but he hated himself more.

Here was one, who had hugged himself all his days as an adventurer waiting his chance, running away at the first challenge of adventure; a lover of Romance who fled from the earliest overture of his goddess.

He was ashamed and angry, but what else was there to do?
Burglary in the company of a queer poet and a queerer urchin?
It was unthinkable.
Presently, as they tramped silently on, they came to the bridge beneath which the peaty waters of the Garple ran in porter-coloured pools and tawny cascades.