so utterly, so disastrously, so swiftly upon his complacency,
robbing him of his sustenance, of Clare, of
his home. The complaining voice of the old man
finally pierced his abstraction. "If you are going
to ride," Bartamon complained, "don't drag your
feet."

The two men consumed a formless, ample meal,
after which Gordon still waited negligently for the
priest. The sun sank toward the western range; the
late afternoon grew as hushed, as rich in color, in
vert shadows, ultramarine, and amber, as heavy in
foliage bathed in aureate light, as the nave of a
cathedral under stained glass.

In a corner of the shed Gordon found a fishing
rod of split bamboo, sprung with time and neglect,
the wrappings hanging and effectually loose. A
small brass reel was fastened to the butt, holding
an amount of line. He balanced the rod in his
grasp, discovering it to be the property of the old
man.

"What'll you take for it?" he demanded. His
store of money had been reduced to a precarious sum
of silver; but the longing had seized him to fish in
the open, to follow a stream into the tranquil dusk.

"I got some flies too." The other resurrected a
cigar box, which held some feathered hooks attached
to doubtful guts. "They are dried out," Gordon
pronounced, testing them; "what will you take for

[[112]]

p111 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p112w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p113

v?