One of the results of the transformation was that great masses of crag had fallen, and a mightier mass than all hung trembling in a black abyss. As soon as the sky had cleared Old Mould was abroad on the mountain, his bleared eyes greedily fixed on the loosened crag. His tottering mind saw in the wet, glowing ironstone the realisation of his life-dream. The ruined speculators, the engineers, the miners--all were wrong. _His_ faith in the mountain was fulfilled. As he looked, a cold perspiration broke over his body. He steadied himself as he sank on a boulder, and then in imagination took up two great handfuls of glistening gold, and let the bright coins run through his bony fingers. The parchment in the powder canister, ay, and more, more were his! A shepherd and his dog passed close by, but Mould never saw them. He thought a while longer, then went down to his hut. He would blast the crag from the breast that held it, and if only the heart of the mountain confirmed what he suspected, then he was rich, rich indeed! As the short afternoon fell he started off to cry "_Open Sesame_." A barrel of gunpowder lay on his bare shoulder; and wrapped in his rough frieze coat was a delicate straw-stem fuse. _These_ would solve the mystery! They solved two mysteries,--a greater and a less. The powder and fuse were placed in position. A flint and steel supplied a spark, and Mould's shambling legs carried him off over the rugged boulders. Then he watched,--watched for a red glare to tear the sky, and a thundering sound to shake the mountain. But neither came. Save for the hoarse croak of a raven and the bark of a fox, nothing broke the stillness. One hour, two, three. The fuse must have failed, or the powder have become damp; and as the moon and stars lit up the crags, Mould made as though to examine the spot. He gained it. Precisely what happened next is not known. Suddenly it seemed as though the mountain had exploded. There was a terrible glare, something like an earthquake shook the ground, and thousands of tons of rock and _débris_ rushed down into the White Quartz Valley. That was all. The great, green mountain had taken Mould to her broader bosom, and the night wanderings of the old man had led him in the way of the Delectable Mountains whence there is no return. IV. After an hour's hard climbing we gain one of the topmost outliers, whence we command an extensive map-like view of the circumjacent mountains. A final struggle for the last ridge, and then along its crest. We are at an angle formed by the vales of Grasmere, Legberthwaite, and Patterdale, when a magnificent effect is produced as the sun suddenly pierces the clouds. A golden mass of molten sea stretches eastward. Bright sunny patches light up the landscape below; and a billowy sea of mountains rolls away, with every wave a name. Purple pavilions of hills stretch far and beyond on every side. Now we are among the clouds, and look down on all things mundane.