He woke trembling. The dream had been very vivid. Yet more vivid than heat or fatigue was the face of the woman he had seen. Of one thing he was very certain. It was no dream face only. Somewhere the woman was in existence, and from that moment till life should be ended for him he must seek her. If in sleep the desire to reach her had been intense, the desire in waking was threefold. Here one might say was madness and illusion. Maybe. Nevertheless it stung him quick to action. He got to his feet, picking up his cloak from the ground where it had lain beside him. He looked around. There was no man in sight. So much the better, since he was in no mood either for argument or farewell. Leaving the smooth green of the grass sward he plunged straight into the forest. Here he was to experience some of that so-called evil magic which brought the forest its ill name. Verily an’ he were so minded he might have believed the trees and shrubs possessed of demons so venomously did they seek to bar his passage among them. Knowing, however, the thought sheer foolishness he but mocked at it, and put it from him. The path by which he had made his way to the Castle had become overgrown during his twelve months’ sojourn there. The difficulty of his return route fretted him while it roused him to do combat with it. Now and again he paused to break off some branch tough as leather, requiring the full strength of both his hands to twist. He became hot and weary, and very assuredly angry with the difficulties that beset him. A dogged obstinacy took hold on him. For the moment he lost sight of the memory of his dream and the quest on which it had brought him. Sheer determination to win through the forest at any hazard sent him struggling onward. An’ he had to break his way piecemeal through the forest he would win his way out. You see him now a very stubborn man, one not to be kept prisoner against his own will and pleasure. Yard by yard he made his way forward. His hands began to drop blood, his clothes were sadly torn. Two thirds of the forest lay behind him. An’ he could hold out for the remainder all were well. He shook the blood from his fingers which smarted very painfully, cried courage to his heart, and beat onward. Here it was that the memory of his dream returned to him, and further, here was the pity of it, returned merely as dream. That was discouraging. It made him appear a fool for his pains, his trouble to no purpose. For a moment his heart cried to him to give up the remainder of his journey, to return on his path. “Nay,” he said, very dogged, “’tis a low suggestion to make a man. An’ I return ’tis like as not the reality of the dream returns also. The journey thus far will have been for naught, and it will be but to make again. I cry onward.” Which methinks sound reasoning.