Stumbling, bruised, and bleeding he made the last bit of the forest; saw at length the sky between the trees. Worn out he dropped on their margin, halting for a moment’s breathing space. While he lay breathless and panting the face of his vision returned to him clear and vivid. Again he knew it for no dream. This much at least he had as reward for his labours. He got to his feet on the instant. The land around him lay in sunshine. Now he saw what had escaped him formerly in the dusk, a path through the bog around the forest. He took it gladly and came out upon the plain. Here in the sunlight he saw the great boulders, less ominous now than in the gathering storm; and far off he saw the white road climbing the hillside. He knew it for his goal without doubt, and set off thither. An hour or so brought him to it, and he began to ascend. He felt the heat of the sun upon him, bringing his dream clear to mind. Each moment he thought to see the figure on the road before him, but it stretched onward empty up the hill. He climbed steadily; anon saw the tree dark against the blue of the sky. He pressed forward towards it. So sure had he been at the beginning of the climb of finding what he sought that disappointment fell very hard upon him when he saw no figure standing beneath it. Sick at heart he came up to it, looked around. On every side stretched dusty grass, sun-baked and dry; and on ahead, between the stretches of it, passed the white road. The futility of his quest struck upon him. He felt himself a deluded man. About to turn bitterly away his eye was caught by an impress in the dusty ground below the tree. Bending closer he saw foot-marks, clear and unblurred, deeply imprinted. Someone had stood there not long since. Slight hope to go on, seeing it might have been a mere wayfarer such as he himself. Yet even as a drowning man grips hold on a straw so Peregrine gripped on the faint hope the impress brought him. He saw now that the marks passed on along the road. With hope renewed he followed in their track. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XV SIMON OF THE BEES IN a valley, hill-surrounded on all sides, with but a narrow passage between them to the north and to the south, stood on a time a hamlet. It clustered for the most part round the parish church, a small building, with a square low tower at one end. For all I know it stands there to this day, though most assuredly the houses then around it are done away with. This fact, an’ I were so minded, might lead me to inscribe sage reflections on the decay of life, and the passing of time. But I am by no means disposed so to weary you, for which mercy you will doubtless cry _Deo gratias_, or some such pious thanks. My business is merely to chronicle Peregrine’s wanderings on his quest, and to leave sage reflections to those more apt to deal with them.