At the gate of Bradley’s house he stopped.  Through the window he saw Luke and his wife at supper.  They had not waited for him.  He would not go in.  He could not eat or talk to them.  He wanted to be alone to decide what course to pursue.  He crossed the road and plunged into the densest part of a pine forest.  He came to a heap of pine-needles that the wind had massed together, and sank down on it, hugged his knees to his breast, and groaned.  He wanted to tell his whole story to some one—­any one who would listen and advise him.  He could not decide for himself—­his power of reasoning was gone.  Suddenly he rose to his feet and started up the mountain.  Taking a short cut, he reached the Hawkbill road, and, with rapid, swinging strides, began to climb the mountain.

As he got higher among the craggy peaks, that rose sombre and majestic in the moonlight, the air grew more rarified and his breath came short.

He could see the few lights of the village scattered here and there in the dark valley, and hear the clangor of the cast-iron bell at the little church.  It was prayer-meeting night.

After a while he left the main road, and without any reason at all for so doing, he plunged into the tangle of laurel, rhododendron bushes, vines, and briers.  The soles of his shoes had become slick on the pine-needles and heather, and he slipped and fell several times, but he rose and struggled on.  Then he saw the bare brown cliff of a great canyon over the tops of the trees, and suddenly realizing the distance he had come he turned and walked homeward.

He found the Bradley house wrapped in darkness.  He could hear Luke snoring out to the gate.  He went round the house to the back door.  It was unlocked, and he slipped in and gained his own room.  Without undressing he threw himself on the bed and tried to sleep, but the attempt was vain.  He lay awake all night, and when dawn broke he had not yet decided whether he was going away or not.  He really believed he was losing his mind, but he did not care.  He rose and sat at his window.  The sky along the eastern horizon was turning pale, and the chickens were crowing and flapping their wings.  He heard Bradley lustily clearing his throat as he got out of bed.  Later he heard him in the kitchen making a fire.  Westerfelt knew he would go out to the barn-yard to feed and water his cattle and horses, and he wanted to avoid him and his cheery morning greeting.  Buttoning his coat round his neck, he tip-toed from his room across the passage and went down the street to the stable.