In their stress, as a hand put down to touch him where he writhed, a sudden recollection came--himself with Japhra by the van by Fir-Tree pool; Japhra with a lighted match cupped against his face and Japhra's words: "Listen to me, master. Listen to me--thy type runneth hot through life till at last it cometh to the big fight. Send me news of that. Send only 'The Big Fight, Japhra.' I shall know the winner." Ah, here was the Big Fight, saved for him, growing for him through these years and now released upon him! "I shall know the winner." He crouched lower beneath the storm, and in his inward storm buried his fingers in the sodden turf. "I shall know the winner"--ah, God, God, which was victory and which defeat? To win Dora, to take all that was his and she, his darling, with it, but against Rollo to use this hideous thing: was that victory? To lose all, all, to let his darling go, but to spare Rollo: was victory there? Was that victory with such a prize? his Dora won? Yes, that was victory, victory! Was that victory at such a price, Rollo spared, his darling lost? Could he bear to see his darling go? Endure to live and know whose son he was? Watch Rollo with his darling and keep his secret sheathed? Was victory there? No, no, defeat--defeat unthinkable, impossible, not to be borne! He sprang to his feet and another thought came at him and gripped him. Japhra again: "Get at the littleness of it--get at the littleness of it. It will pass." Ah, easy, futile words; ah, damnable philosophy! Was littleness here? Was littleness in this? "Remember what endureth. Not man nor man's work--only the green things, only the brown earth that to-day humbly supports thee, to-morrow obscurely covers thee. Lay hold on that when aught vexeth thee; all else passeth." The Big Fight had him; in its agony he cried aloud, threw up his arms and fell again to his knees. II So Ima found him. When he had burst from the house, when Aunt Maggie had followed him and cried after him into the night, when she had returned and for a while wrestled with fear of what she had seen in his face, she went to the little room that was set apart for Ima and in sharp agony, in dreadful possession of that "Mistress, beware lest thou betrayest him," had cried "Ima, Ima, go to him! go to him!" And Ima, taking Aunt Maggie's hands and staring in her face, "What has happened to him? What has happened to him? I heard him in his room alone. I knew something had happened to him." The other could only say: "Go to him, Ima! Go! He must not be alone!" She was at once obeyed; her voice and face, and nameless dread that had been with Ima since Percival had left the cart and while she heard him in his room, commanded it. "How will you find him?" Aunt Maggie asked. Hatless and without covering against the storm, Ima went to the outer door. "He will be on Plowman's Ridge," she said. "I shall find him."