Maskull sang no paeans of praise in honour of the gloriously overcrowded valley.  On the contrary, he felt deeply cynical and depressed.  He thought that the unseen power—­whether it was called Nature, Life, Will, or God—­that was so frantic to rush forward and occupy this small, vulgar, contemptible world, could not possess very high aims and was not worth much.  How this sordid struggle for an hour or two of physical existence could ever be regarded as a deeply earnest and important business was beyond his comprehension The atmosphere choked him, he longed for air and space.  Thrusting his way through to the side of the ravine, he began to climb the overhanging cliff, swinging his way up from tree to tree.

When he arrived at the top, Branchspell beat down on him with such brutal, white intensity that he saw that there was no staying there.  He looked around, to ascertain what part of the country he had come to.  He had travelled about ten miles from the sea, as the crow flies.  The bare, undulating wolds sloped straight down toward it; the water glittered in the distance; and on the horizon he was just able to make out Swaylone’s Island.  Looking north, the land continued sloping upward as far as he could see.  Over the crest—­ that is to say, some miles away—­a line of black, fantastic-shaped rocks of quite another character showed themselves; this was probably Threal.  Behind these again, against the sky, perhaps fifty or even a hundred miles off, were the peaks of Lichstorm, most of them covered with greenish snow that glittered in the sunlight.

They were stupendously high and of weird contours.  Most of them were conical to the top, but from the top, great masses of mountain balanced themselves at what looked like impossible angles—­ overhanging without apparent support.  A land like that promised something new, he thought:  extraordinary inhabitants.  The idea took shape in his mind to go there, and to travel as swiftly as possible, it might even be feasible to get there before sunset.  It was less the mountains themselves that attracted him than the country which lay beyond—­the prospect of setting eyes on the blue sun, which he judged to be the wonder of wonders in Tormance.

The direct route was over the hills, but that was out of the question, because of the killing heat and the absence of shade.  He guessed, however, that the valley would not take him far out of his way, and decided to keep to that for the time being, much as he hated and feared it.  Into the hotbed of life, therefore, he once more swung himself.

Once down, he continued to follow the windings of the valley for several miles through sunlight and shadow.  The path became increasingly difficult.  The cliffs closed in on either side until they were less than a hundred yards apart, while the bed of the ravine was blocked by boulders, great and small, so that the little stream, which was now diminished to the proportions of a brook, had to come down where