“Well, after all,” said Sprot surprisingly, “there may be something in what Terence says. There are more things in heaven and earth, as Wordsworth reminds us. There is much that we cannot comprehend, and I was never one to scoff at what is beyond our understanding.” It was clear, Ambrose saw, that he had something up his sleeve. “Let me feel your pulse,” said Sir Richard. “Ah! I thought so. The spring and the excellent wine we drank at dinner, and something that is no doubt aphrodisiacal in the night itself, have disturbed your blood. I detect overtones of moonshine in the vibrations of your nervous system. The sap is stirring in you; you are beginning to Sprot.” “Clever—very clever,” replied the little man, with a certain resentment. He would have shown it more positively, but he knew it was better not to engage with these men in a contest of words. “He has had a vision, perhaps,” fluted Terence from the gorge-mouth in deep tones. “Illumination comes oftenest to those who are simple in mind.” “True,” observed Sir Richard. “Not entirely a vision,” said Sprot, with a sudden falter. Then he made up his mind. “Look here, you chaps, you mustn’t laugh at me for once....” “Go on,” said Frew-Gaff. “How beautiful is the humility of those who have experienced the Experience!” exclaimed Terence. Sprot pointed a finger. “You see Blackwood up there?” Following his finger, they dimly saw the motionless form of Blackwood seated cross-legged on a ledge of the mountain. He was in discipline. “Yes,” they breathed. “Well, I was up there talking to him, because I thought he might do me a bit of good, and as we were chatting, about self-control and” (he coughed) “purity and that sort of thing, and it was getting dark, we both distinctly saw a man pass riding on a goat, like the one you saw, Terence, beside the ship. He went down that narrow path very silent and swift, ghost-like; but what got us both a bit startled was his eyes, which were what you might call fierce and majestic, if I might put it so.” Terence took him by the hand, exclaiming, “Brother!” Then once more addressing the mountain as “The Last Wall,” he stepped towards the river and said, to some hypothetical listener, “I come.” “Stop!” cried Sprot. Terence, knee-deep in the reedy water, turned with an expression of inquiry. “There’s more than ghosts in these mountains,” said the man of business. “Gentlemen, I am not an artist, or a dreamer, or a scientist; I am a practical man, and as such I keep my eyes and ears pretty wide open, and perhaps I see things that escape some others. Now this fellow Such-a-one, and his talisman, and all the tales we’ve heard about this part of the world—what do you make of it?” He paused, a conjuror about to produce an idea out of an apparently empty mind. “Absolutely nothing,” said Sir Richard, looking down at him with tolerance in his moonlit, distinguished face.