It simply narrowed down to this--it behooved him to loiter no longer in the green world of spring.

Penance or no penance he must now try penitential speed.

How on earth had he ever managed to blunder into a country all trees and no rails?
He found a druid of a brook chanting paganly to trees and moss.
Ordinarily Kenny would have found its music and its shadows infinitely poetic.

Now, wretchedly out of sorts, he plunged his face and hands into a shady pool with a sigh of vast materialistic content, longed to linger and cursed the village posse he fancied at his heels.

The first romance of his flight from justice was waning rapidly.