The way he sank on the table in exhaustion, drinking his milk, his will,
nevertheless, so perfect and unblemished, triumphant, though his body
was broken and in anguish, was almost too much to bear. My heart was
wrung for my countryman, wrung till it bled.
I could not bear to understand my countryman, a man who worked for his
living, as I had worked, as nearly all my countrymen work. He would not
give in. On his holiday he would walk, to fulfil his purpose, walk on;
no matter how cruel the effort were, he would not rest, he would not
relinquish his purpose nor abate his will, not by one jot or tittle. His
body must pay whatever his will demanded, though it were torture.
It all seemed to me so foolish. I was almost in tears. He went to bed. I
walked by the dark lake, and talked to the girl in the inn. She was a
pleasant girl: it was a pleasant inn, a homely place. One could be
happy there.
In the morning it was sunny, the lake was blue. By night I should be
nearly at the crest of my journey. I was glad.
The Englishman had gone. I looked for his name in the book. It was
written in a fair, clerkly hand.
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