so much the habit of supposing it must be whither we intend, when we go in a determined manner, that a, doubt of it distracts the understanding—­decapitates us; suddenly to alight, moreover, and find ourselves dropped at the heels of flying Time, like an unconsidered bundle, is anything but a reconstruction of the edifice.  The natural revelry of the blood in speed suffers a violent shock, not to speak of our notion of being left behind, quite isolated and unsound.  Or, if you insist, the condition shall be said to belong exclusively to Celtic nature, seeing that it had been drawn directly from a scion of one of those tribes.

Young Patrick jumped from the train as headless as good St. Denis.  He was a juvenile thinker, and to discover himself here, where he both wished and wished not to be, now deeming the negative sternly in the ascendant, flicked his imagination with awe of the influence of the railway service upon the destinies of man.  Settling a mental debate about a backward flight, he drove across the land so foreign to his eyes and affections, and breasted a strong tide of wishes that it were in a contrary direction.  He would rather have looked upon the desert under a sand-storm, or upon a London suburb yet he looked thirstingly.  Each variation of landscape of the curved highway offered him in a moment decisive features:  he fitted them to a story he knew:  the whole circle was animated by a couple of pale mounted figures beneath no happy light.  For this was the air once breathed by Adiante Adister, his elder brother Philip’s love and lost love:  here she had been to Philip flame along the hill-ridges, his rose-world in the dust-world, the saintly in his earthly.  And how had she rewarded him for that reverential love of her?  She had forborne to kill him.  The bitter sylph of the mountain lures men to climb till she winds them in vapour and leaves them groping, innocent of the red crags below.  The delicate thing had not picked his bones:  Patrick admitted it; he had seen his brother hale and stout not long back.  But oh! she was merciless, she was a witch.  If ever queen-witch was, she was the crowned one!

For a personal proof, now:  he had her all round him in a strange district though he had never cast eye on her.  Yonder bare hill she came racing up with a plume in the wind:  she was over the long brown moor, look where he would:  and vividly was she beside the hurrying beck where it made edges and chattered white.  He had not seen, he could not imagine her face:  angelic dashed with demon beauty, was his idea of the woman, and there is little of a portrait in that; but he was of a world where the elemental is more individual than the concrete, and unconceived of sight she was a recognised presence for the green-island brain of a youth whose manner of hating was to conjure her spirit from the air and let fly his own in pursuit of her.