Another peculiarity of the animal gifted with wings is, that around the height he soars to he can see no barriers nor any of the fences raised by men.  And here again he differs from Passion, which may tug against common sense but is never, in a great nature, divorced from it:  In air on Hippogriff, desires wax boundless, obstacles are hidden.  It seemed nothing to Wilfrid (after several tremendous descents of humility) that he should hurry for Monmouth away, to gaze on Emilia under her fair, infernal, bewitching wreath; nothing that he should put an arm round her; nothing that he should forthwith carry her off, though he died for it.  Forming no design beyond that of setting his eyes on her, he turned the head of Hippogriff due Westward.

CHAPTER XLV

Penarvon castle lay over the borders of Monmouthshire.  Thither, on a night of frosty moonlight, troops of carriages were hurrying with the usual freightage for a country ball:—­the squire who will not make himself happy by seeing that his duty to the softer side of his family must be performed during the comfortable hours when bachelors snooze in arm-chairs, and his nobler dame who, not caring for Port or tobacco, cheerfully accepts the order of things as bequeathed to her:  the everlastingly half-satisfied young man, who looks forward to the hour when his cigar-light will shine; and the damsel thrice demure as a cover for her eagerness.  Within a certain distance of one of the carriages, a man rode on horseback.  The court of the castle was reached, and he turned aside, lingering to see whether he could get a view of the lighted steps.  To effect his object, he dismounted and led his horse through the gates, turning from gravel to sward, to keep in the dusk.  A very agile middle-aged gentleman was the first to appear under the portico-lamps, and he gave his hand to a girl of fifteen, and then to a most portly lady in a scarlet mantle.  The carriage-door slammed and drove off, while a groan issued from the silent spectator.  “Good heavens! have I followed these horrible people for five-and-twenty miles!” Carriage after carriage rattled up to the steps, was disburdened of still more ‘horrible people’ to him, and went the way of the others.  “I shan’t see her, after all,” he cried hoarsely, and mounting, said to the beast that bore him, “Now go sharp.”

Whether you recognize the rider of Hippogriff or not, this is he; and the poor livery-stable screw stretched madly till wind failed, when he was allowed to choose his pace.  Wilfrid had come from London to have sight of Emilia in the black-briony wreath:  to see her, himself unseen, and go.  But he had not seen her; so he had the full excuse to continue the adventure.  He rode into a Welsh town, and engaged a fresh horse for the night.

“She won’t sing, at all events,” thought Wilfrid, to comfort himself, before the memory that she could not, in any case, touched springs of weakness and pitying tenderness.  From an eminence to which he walked outside the town, Penarvon was plainly visible with all its lighted windows.