On the morrow he found himself able to make less progress. His nature, lately accustomed to over-nourishment, demanded something more substantial than fruit and nuts. He began to realize that, until he became inured to this life, he must occasionally have a little grain, or meat. Also, the utter loneliness of the vast jungle through which he travelled, began to appall him. He had so lately known the constant companionship of many men, that there hung over him a sense of direst oppression, in this uninhabited wilderness. His recently engendered dread and hatred of humankind was already giving way to an unconquerable longing for the sight of a human face. On the third morning he woke almost to desperation. Should nothing happen to him to-day, he felt that he must break under the strain of thought:—that empty, beating thought—of nothing. Meantime, there crept upon him the insidious desire to try again, only once again, if men would not accept him; if, knowing nothing of him, his mark must be apparent to a point of instinctive aversion. And, at the same time with this, he was coming to something that he had not had to endure before. He was beginning to hate himself for what he was. His restless longing to be respected among men turned him away from that rebellion against them which had long possessed him; and, in the revulsion, he went to the other extreme: hating himself because he could not be as others. The whole afternoon of the third day he spent in toiling up a great hill, the summit of which was reached at sunset; and from this height he gained recompense for the long travail. Around him—to the south—to the east—to the west, rolled great hills, verdure-clad. No sign of plain or level land was visible. On three sides of him the hills stretched away, a little lower than that on which he stood. But in front, to the north, rose a series of gigantic, rocky heights, which towered infinitely upward, bringing him a realizing sense of his own pygmy unimportance. And now his eyes, travelling downward, perceived the deep ravine that separated him from the first of the high mountains; and, looking, his heart leaped within his breast. For there, in that gulf, were houses:—mud huts, wooden ones—two, three, a score; and beside them ran a swift mountain stream, the murmur of which rose up to him through the stillness. “I will go down! I will go down to them, for they are built of men!” he said to himself, eagerly, like a child. And forthwith he began his descent, walking with a new buoyance. As he proceeded, his way grew difficult. The houses, far below, were hidden from his view in the thickness of the undergrowth. The light was melting away; for the sun lay on the edge of the horizon, behind the hills. Still he pressed on, a tempered joy in his heart that was not to be stilled by reason.