And now, Quincy was walking in the woods, dazed and abashed, as might be a man in sudden presence before the woman of his forgotten dreams. He felt nothing deeply. He and the woods seemed very separate. And curiously, of them the woods seemed the more personal and alive. He took in, with his undiscerning eyes, the intricate recurrence of design, the sumptuous harmony of sky and ground and forest, the minor notes, as of universe in universe, traced by moss and vine and flower within the sweeping whole. But, though he strove to feel his measure in this whole, a sense of nervous fear prevented him. He walked on, against his instinct to turn back and keep the road. Something within him seemed to know that it took time to grow used to one’s divinity. And even so, as he marched on, he came to unlimber. A lump within him thawed and he was bathed in a glow that had still a tang of frost. But, yet, his mind had never been so vacant. And then, a new thing happened. It was as if the trees had bent down, of a sudden, and possessed him; as if their acrid juices had been shot within him; as if their leaves were brushing upon his face like amorous fingers. The woods were a vibrant, sinuous form against his body, pressing it to a sweet numbness like a mother’s breast. Quincy’s blood tingled. A madness gripped him, mounted him, spurred him into flight. He ran. There was nothing else. The woods were in him. And they were an ecstasy. So, sustaining it, he ran. And then, breathless, capless, he stopped. All of it seemed not over-strange. He knew it would be useless to seek his cap. Besides, he did not care. He turned instinctively toward where he thought the road must lie. He rejoined it. And then, he made for home. Half way, he grew conscious of a slight pain in his left foot. He looked down and was impressed to find that the shoe was torn and that blood lay thick-matted with the dust upon the stocking that showed through. Immediately, he was aware that the pain had been with him long; that it stung frightfully. He began straightway to limp. And as the pain grew stronger, the charm that had made his visitation in the woods seem natural and calm, wore gradually out. He looked back, now, with wonder upon his frenzied running. What had happened? how long and why had he done as he had done? But at best, amazement was feeble. He accepted the corybantic mystery. It filled him now with a strange satiety. Even the foot that made him limp did not deter his startling consciousness of being happy. And the cottagers he passed, who gazed at this strange apparition of the Burt boy, hatless, dishevelled, limping, failed to arouse him from his reverie. In this manner, he reached his home.