He did not hurry now. Just ahead
of him slumbered the mountains; very close was the place of his dreams.
But he was no longer impelled by the mighty lure of the years that were
gone. Day by day something had worn away that lure, as the ceaseless
grind of water wears away rock, and for two weeks he wandered slowly
and without purpose in the green valleys that lay under the snow-tipped
peaks of the ranges. He was gripped in the agony of an unutterable
loneliness, which fell upon and scourged him like a disease. It was a
deeper and more bitter thing than a yearning for companionship. He
might have found that. Twice he was near camps. Three times he saw
outfits coming out, and purposely drew away from them. He had no desire
to meet men, no desire to talk or to be troubled by talking. Day And
night his body and his soul cried out for Mary Josephine, and in his
despair he cursed those who had taken her away from him. It was a
crisis which was bound to come, and in his aloneness he fought it out.
Day after day he fought it, until his face and his heart bore the scars
of it. It was as if a being on whom he had set all his worship had
died, only it was worse than death. Dead, Mary Josephine would still
have been his inspiration; in a way she would have belonged to him.
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