Having given up his previous intention of crossing the stream, there seemed nothing better for him to do than to follow the truant's advice and take the road back to Green Springs.

Yet he was loath to leave the wood, halting on its verge, and turning to look back into its charmed recesses.

Once or twice--perhaps because he recalled the words of the poem--that yellowish sea of ferns had seemed instinct with hidden life, and he had even fancied, here and there, a swaying of its plumed crests.
Howbeit, he still lingered long enough for the open sunlight into which he had obtruded to point out the bravery of his handsome figure.

Then he wheeled his horse, the light glanced from polished double bit and bridle-fripperies, caught his red sash and bullion buttons, struck a parting flash from his silver spurs, and he was gone! For a moment the light streamed unbrokenly through the wood.

And then it could be seen that the yellow mass of undergrowth HAD moved with the passage of another figure than his own.