The minutes passed, deep and grave, slow and full, with the sense of afternoon, of solemn and trackless woods, unbreathed air, silence and high heaven, then the April wind swept up the gorge and brought the sound of water.  Rand sat up, resting his head upon his hands, and stared down the shadowy steep.  There were flowers growing close to him, violets and anemones, and on a ledge of rock above, the maiden-hair fern.  His eyes falling upon them, they brought to his mind, suddenly and sadly enough, Deb and her flower ladies, all in a ring beneath the cedars—­Faith and Hope and Charity, Ruth and Esther and the Shulamite.

The recollection of that morning was followed by a thought of the night before—­of the Fontenoy drawing-room and of all who had been gathered there.  He saw the place again, and he saw every figure within it—­the two Churchills, the two Carys, Unity, Jacqueline.  “There is not one,” he thought, “to whom I’ve worked no harm.  All that I have touched, I have withered.”

The wind again rushed up the gorge, a great stir of air that swayed the trees, and filled the ravine with a sound like the sea.  Rand listened dully, staring down the steeps of pine and hemlock, giant trees that had dwelt there long.  A desolation came upon him.  The air appeared to darken and grow cold, the wind passed, and the gorge lay very still.  Rand bowed himself together, and at last, with a dull and heavy throb, his heart spoke.  “What shall I do,” it asked, “O God?”

The Absolute within him made answer.  “The simple right.”

The wind returned, and the trees of the forest shook to the blast.  The simple right!  Where was the simple right in so complex a wrong?  Step forward, backward, to either side—­harm and misery every way!  And pride, and ambition, and love, and human company—­to close the door, to close the door on all!  “No,” said Rand, and set his teeth.  “No, no!”

The afternoon deepened in the gorge of the Blue Ridge.  Now the wind swept it and now the wind was still.  The sunlight touched the treetops, or fell through in shafts upon the early flowers.  From the mould of a million generations stalk and leaf arose for their brief hour of light and life.  When it was spent, they would rest for aeon, then stir again.  In the silence was heard the fall of the pine cone.

Rand lay, face down, upon the rock.  In his mind there was now no thought of Cary, no thought of Jacqueline, nor of Fairfax Cary, nor of any other of the dead and living.  It was the valley of the shadow of death, and his soul was at grips with Apollyon.

He lay there until all the sunlight was withdrawn from the gorge, and until Young Isham, frightened into disobedience, came and touched him upon the shoulder.  He lifted a grey and twisted face.  “Yes, yes, Young Isham, it is late!  Go back, and I will come in a moment.”