He shut himself into his study. Here was his stronghold, his fortress. He
settled into his chair and the things in the room gathered around him with
friendly consoling gestures.
"We are still here, we are your old friends. We know you for what you
truly are. We do not change like the world."
He fell into a deep sleep; he was desperately tired; he had not slept at
all last night. He was sunk into deep fathomless unconsciousness. Then he
rose from that, climbing up, up, seeing before him a high, black, snow-
tipped mountain. The ascent of this he must achieve, his life depended
upon it. He seemed to be naked, the wind lashing his body, icy cold, so
cold that his breath stabbed him. He climbed, the rocks cut his knees and
hands; then, on every side his enemies appeared, Bentinck-Major and
Foster, the Bishop's Chaplain, women, even children, laughing, and behind
them Hogg and that drunken painter. Their hands were on him, they pulled
at his flesh, they beat on his face--then, suddenly, rising like a full
moon behind the hill--Ronder!
He woke with a cry; the sun was flooding the room, and at the joy of that
great light and of finding himself alone he could have burst into tears of
relief.
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