I signified my pleasure, and mounted a brave black mustang, written all over with liberty.  We had ridden out the dew of the morning, and for miles not one word had been spoken, the only sound in the stillness having been the hoofs’ echo on the prairie-grass, when Saul rode close to me, and, laying his hand on my pony’s head, spoke in a deep, strange voice that put my soul into expectancy, for I had heard the same once before in my life.

“Lucy,” he said, “I sometimes think that I have done a great wrong in taking you into my keeping; for I must accept these calls to wildness that come over me at intervals.”

“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.

“Twice, Lucy, I have crossed the American Desert, and lain down to sleep at the foot of the Rocky Mountains.”

“You are not going there now?” I almost gasped.

“Why not?  Can’t you go with me?”

Oh, how my spirit recoiled at the thought of the Desert!  Wild animals processioned through my brain in endless circles.  All the stories of Indian ferocity that ever I had heard came into my consciousness, as it is said all the past events of life do in the drowning, and I had no time to hesitate.  The decision of my lifetime gathered into that instant.  Saul or nothing; and bravely I answered,—­did I not?—­when, with brightening eyes, I said, “Let us on!”—­and shaking the hand from my saddle-bow, I gave my prairie friend leave to fly.

“Lucy!  Lucy!” cried Saul, and he soon overtook me,—­“Lucy, I sought you as the thirsting man seeks water on the desert; and I have sought to bless you, almost as Hagar blessed the Angel,—­almost as the devout soul blesses God, when it finds a spring that He has made to rise out of the sands.  Having found you, I was content.  I thought that I could live always, as other men do, in the tameness of Town and Law; but I could not, unless you refused to go with me into the Nature that my spirit demands as a part of its own life.”

“Saul, you know that you can go without me,—­else I should not wish to go.  I go, not because I am a necessity to you, but a free-born soul, that wills to go where you go.”

The grave Professor (for I whisper it here to-night, with only the wind to hear, that Saul is a Professor in a famed seat of learning not many leagues away from the Atlantic coast) looked down at me with a vague, puzzled air, for an instant, then said,—­

“I see!  It is so, Lucy.  You have divined the secret.  I am not to let you know that I cannot live without you,—­and, if you can, you are to make me think that you only tolerate me.”

“What of it?  Isn’t it almost true?  I sometimes think, that, if ever we are in heaven, effort to remain there will be necessary to its full joy.  We are always crying for rest, when effort is the only pleasure worth possessing.”

“You are right, and you are wrong.  Let us leave mental philosophy with mankind, who have to do with it.  Just now, I am willing to confess that I need you, and you are to do as you will.  Come! let us look into this thicket.”