XXI

Again sober, without the resources of the citybred parasite, and without

money, his instinct, his longing, drew him irresistibly into the open; his

heredity forced him toward the mountains, into familiar paths, valleys,

heights.

He avoided the stage road, and progressed toward Greenstream by tangled

trails, rocky ascents, sharp declines. By late day he had penetrated to

the heart of the upland region. He stood gazing down upon the undulating,

verdant hills, over which he could trace the course of a thunder gust. The

storm moved swiftly, in a compact, circular shadow on the sunny slope; he

could distinguish the sudden twisting of limbs, the path of torn leaves,

broken branches, left by the lash of the wind and rain. The livid,

sinister spot on the placid greenery drew nearer; he could now hear the

continuous rumble of thunder, see the stabbing, purplish flashes of

lightning. The edge of the storm swept darkly over the spot where he was

standing; he was soaked by a momentary assault of rain driving greyly out

of a passing, profound gloom. Then the cloud vanished, leaving the

countryside sparkling and serene under a stainless evening sky.

The water dripped down his back, swashed in his shoes; he was, in his

lowered vitality, supremely uncomfortable. The way was slippery with mud;

wet leaves bathed his face in sudden, chill showers, clung to his hands.

He fell.

When he arrived at the rim of Greenstream night had hidden that familiar,

welcome vista. The lights of the houses shone pale yellow below. A new

reluctance to enter this place of home possessed him, a shame born of his

denuded pockets, his bedraggled exterior. He descended, but turned to the

left, finding a rude road which skirted the base of the eastern range. He

was following no definite plan, moving slowly, without objective; but a

window glimmering in a square of orange light against the night brought

him to a halt. It marked, he knew, the dwelling of the Jesuit priest,

Merlier. In a sudden impulse he advanced over a short path, and fumbling,

found the door, where he knocked. A chair scraped within and the door

swung open. The form of the priest was dark against the lighted interior

which absorbed them.

Mountain Blood: A Novel · 第 27 / 78 题