“Because you require it,” I answered. “What is it?” She turned to Adam: “Is he forgiven, husband?” “From my heart.” “Then tell him what he has to do.” Adam turned to his daughter. “Give me that hand, Mara, my child.” She held it out to him in her lap. He took it tenderly. “Let us go to the cottage,” he said to me; “there I will instruct you.” As we went, again arose a sudden stormful blast, mingled with a great flapping on the roof, but it died away as before in a deep moan. When the door of the death-chamber was closed behind us, Adam seated himself, and I stood before him. “You will remember,” he said, “how, after leaving my daughter’s house, you came to a dry rock, bearing the marks of an ancient cataract; you climbed that rock, and found a sandy desert: go to that rock now, and from its summit walk deep into the desert. But go not many steps ere you lie down, and listen with your head on the sand. If you hear the murmur of water beneath, go a little farther, and listen again. If you still hear the sound, you are in the right direction. Every few yards you must stop, lie down, and hearken. If, listening thus, at any time you hear no sound of water, you are out of the way, and must hearken in every direction until you hear it again. Keeping with the sound, and careful not to retrace your steps, you will soon hear it louder, and the growing sound will lead you to where it is loudest: that is the spot you seek. There dig with the spade I will give you, and dig until you come to moisture: in it lay the hand, cover it to the level of the desert, and come home.--But give good heed, and carry the hand with care. Never lay it down, in what place of seeming safety soever; let nothing touch it; stop nor turn aside for any attempt to bar your way; never look behind you; speak to no one, answer no one, walk straight on.--It is yet dark, and the morning is far distant, but you must set out at once.” He gave me the hand, and brought me a spade. “This is my gardening spade,” he said; “with it I have brought many a lovely thing to the sun.” I took it, and went out into the night. It was very cold, and pitch-dark. To fall would be a dread thing, and the way I had to go was a difficult one even in the broad sunlight! But I had not set myself the task, and the minute I started I learned that I was left to no chance: a pale light broke from the ground at every step, and showed me where next to set my foot. Through the heather and the low rocks I walked without once even stumbling. I found the bad burrow quite still; not a wave arose, not a head appeared as I crossed it. A moon came, and herself showed me the easy way: toward morning I was almost over the dry channels of the first branch of the river-bed, and not far, I judged, from Mara’s cottage.