Peter in the dust began to whistle softly, to cheer himself, and because he was really feeling better, and because anyhow, for him or not for him, the land at dawn was a golden and glorious thing, and he loved it.  What did it matter whether he could walk through it or not?  There it lay, magical, clear-hewn, bathed in golden sunrise.

Round the turn of the road a bent figure came, stepping slowly and with age, a woodstack on his back.  Heavier even than a knapsack containing a spirit kettle and a Decameron and biscuit remainders in a paper bag, it must be.  Peter watched the slow figure sympathetically.  Would he sway and topple over; and if he did would the woodstack break his fall?  The whisky flask stood ready on Peter’s left.

Peter stopped whistling to watch; then he became aware that once more the hidden distances were jarring and humming.  He sat upright, and waited; a little space of listening, then once again the sungod’s chariot stormed into the morning.

Peter watched it grow in size.  How extremely fortunate....  Even though one was again, as usual, found collapsed and absurd.

The woodstack pursued its slow advance.  The music from Tchaichowsky admonished it, as a matter of form, from far off, then sharply, summarily, from a lessening distance.  The woodstack was puzzled, vaguely worried.  It stopped, dubiously moved to one side, and pursued its cautious way a little uncertainly.

Urquhart, without his chauffeur this time, was driving over the speed-limit, Peter perceived.  He usually did.  But he ought to slacken his pace now, or he would miss Peter by the wall.  He was nearing the woodstack, just going to pass it, with a clear two yards between.  It was not his doing:  it was the woodstack that suddenly lessened the distance, lurching over it, taking the middle of the road.

Peter cried, “Oh, don’t—­oh, don’t,” idiotically, sprawling on hands and knees.

The car swung sharply about like a tugged horse; sprang to the other side of the road, hung poised on a wheel, as near as possible capsized.  A less violent jerk and it would have gone clean over the woodstack that lay in the road on the top of its bearer.

By the time Peter got there, Urquhart had lifted the burden from the old bent figure that lay face downwards.  Gently he turned it over, and they looked on a thin old face gone grey with more than age.

“He can’t be,” said Urquhart.  “He can’t be.  I didn’t touch him.”

Peter said nothing.  His eyes rested on the broken end of a chestnut-stick protruding from the faggot, dangling loose by its bark.  Urquhart’s glance followed his.

“I see,” said Urquhart quietly.  “That did it.  The lamp or something must have struck it and knocked him over.  Poor old chap.”  Urquhart’s hand shook over the still heart.  Peter gave him the whisky flask.  Two minutes passed.  It was no good.

“His heart must have been bad,” said Urquhart, and the soft tones of his pleasant voice were harsh and unsteady.  “Shock, I suppose.  How—­how absolutely awful.”