He had seen them once, in boyhood, on a holiday, and their wonder had remained with him like a treasure. Why should he not add another to his little store, another gem to shine in the dark parts of his life, and throw some of its colour and glory on Theresa? That should be his adventure; he would find the mountains and roam about them, and look fearfully down their rocky sides, and shudder at the thought of falling, and stock his memory with things to tell Theresa. So on the afternoon of Friday he left the little station by the seashore, and tramped inland, following the road for a while until, as he turned a corner, he saw the blue shapes of hills, shadowy but strong, mysterious, lifting themselves to heaven, yet compact of the solid earth of man. He stood still, drinking in beauty like hill water, and suffering a glorious new pain. It was more than beauty that he gazed on; it was the most perfect expression of what man's hopes should be, and the discovery shook him. He walked on. Above the hills the sky was stretched in a faint blue shade that swooned into a white, and here, within a stone's throw of him, the fingers of a chestnut-tree had dipped themselves in dyes. He tasted joy as he went, first across fields and then slowly up the long flank of a hill; it was all joy until, careless or ignorant of the menace in the clouds that were beginning to circle about the summits, he found himself shut in by a thick wall of mist. He stood on a level place strewn with stones, and their grey colour grew into the grey of the mist that bound him. It was very quiet. Afar off there was a faint sound of water, but the beating of his own heart was louder. He held his breath, peering this way and that, but keeping his feet steady lest the noise they made should break the stillness and enrage that something which seemed to wait until he moved. He stood, thinking quickly and anxiously. He must find some way out of this danger, he must keep cool; but he almost screamed when he heard a light scattering of stones, followed by a cry. It was only an old sheep that went bleating away behind the veil, but he could not smile at his alarm. He began to run to and fro, seeking some landmark, and when he found a little trickling stream he thought it would be wise to follow it down the mountain-side. Oncoming darkness was now added to his fears, but he could still see the silver streak, and beside it, walking in steep, oozing moss, he went carefully; nervous, but still hopeful, when he found there were rocks to be descended. Using his shaking hands, he clambered down, absorbed and unforeseeing, and it was almost dark when he came to a ledge that ended with a shocking suddenness. He could not go down. He looked up, and he was afraid. He could not turn his back to that awful emptiness, and climb the steep rocks he could hardly see; his own daring of descent amazed him. He was a little giddy; he blinked in the darkness. He would have to stay there, shivering and afraid.