Sunny brews, whence I had viewed the champaign and traced my forward path, had become bare, wind-swept ridges.

The beech woods that had glowed with ruddy light were naked now; mere black trunks and rigid arms pointing to heaven.

An earthy smell filled the air; a hundred paces away a wall of mist closed the view.
We plodded on sadly up hill and down hill, now fording brooks, already stained with flood-water, now crossing barren heaths.

But up hill or down hill, whatever the outlook, I was never permitted to forget that I was the jailor, the ogre, the villain; that I, riding behind in my loneliness, was the blight on all--the death-spot.

True, I was behind the others--I escaped their eyes.