He looked away to the northwest, where Mount Lassen sent a lazy column of thin, grayish vapor trailing high into the air, and thought how little he had expected to see this much-talked-of volcano; how completely and irrevocably the past two days had changed his life.  Why, this was only Tuesday!  Day before yesterday he had been whooping along the beach at Venice, wading out and diving under the breakers just as they combed for the booming lunge against the sand cluttered with humanity at play.  He had blandly expected to go on playing there whenever the mood and the bunch invited.  Night before last he had danced—­and he had drunk much wine, and had made impulsive love to a girl he had never seen in his life until just before he had held her in his arms as they went swaying and gliding and dipping together across the polished floor, carefree as the gulls outside on the sand.  Night before last he had driven home—­but he winced there, and pulled his thoughts back from that drive.

Here were no girls to listen to foolish speeches; no wine, no music, no boom of breakers, no gulls.  There never would be any.  He was as far from all that as though he had taken flight to the moon.  There was no sound save the whispering rush of the wind that blew over the bare mountain top.  He was above the pines and he could only faintly hear the murmur of their branches.  Below him the world lay hushed, silent with the silence of far distances.  The shadows that lay on the slope and far canyons moved like ghosts across the tumbled wilderness.

For a minute the immensity of silence and blue distance lulled his thoughts again with the feeling of security and peace.  He breathed deep, his nostrils flared like a thoroughbred horse, his face turned this way and that, his eyes drinking deep, satisfying draughts of a beauty such as he had never before known.  His lips were parted a little, half smiling at the wonderful kindness of fate, that had picked him up and set him away up here at the top o’ the world.

He glanced downward, to his right.  There went two objects—­three, he counted them a moment later.  He stepped inside, snatched up the telescope and focussed it eagerly on the slow-moving, black specks.  Why, there went Hank Brown and the fireman, Ed somebody, and the pack horse with Ed’s bedding lashed on its back.  For perhaps a mile he watched them going down through the manzanita and buck brush toward the massed line of balsam firs that marked the nearest edge of the heavy timber line.

So that was the trail that led up to his eyrie!  He marked it well, thinking that it might be a good plan to keep an eye on that trail, in case an officer came looking for him here.

He watched Hank and Ed go down into the balsam firs.  Dark shadows crept after them down the slope to the edge of the thicket where they had disappeared.

He watched the shadows until they gave him a vague feeling of discomfort and loneliness.  He turned away and looked down into the bottom of the mountain’s cup.  The lake lay darkling there, hooded with shadows like a nun, the snow banks at the edge indicating the band of white against the calm face.  It looked cold and lonesome down there; terribly cold and lonesome.