He rose at last, took a cloak, and went down the stone stair into a night cold, still, and bright.  The path by the school-house, the hand’s-breadth of silvered earth, the broken, silvered wall, the pine, the rough descent....  He went through the dark wood where the shining fell broken like a shattered mirror.  Beyond held open country until he came to the glen mouth.  The moon was high.  He heard faint sounds of the far night-time, and his own step upon the silver earth.  He came to the glen and the sound of water streaming to the sea.

How well he knew this place!  Thick trees spread arms above, rock that leaned darkened the narrow path.  But his foot knew where to tread.  In some more open span down poured the twice-broken light; then came darkness.  There was a great checkering of light and darkness and the slumbrous sound of water.  The path grew steeper and rougher.  He was approaching the middle of the place.

At last he came to the cave mouth and the leafless briers that curtained it.  Just before it was reached, the moonbeams struck through clear air.  There was a silver lightness.  A form moved from where it had rested against the rock.  Ian’s voice spoke.

“Alexander?”

“Yes, it is I.”

“The night is so still.  I heard you coming a long way off.  I have lighted a fire in the cave.”

They entered it—­the old boyhood haunt.  All the air was moted for them with memories.  Ian had made the fire and had laid fagots for mending.  The flame played and murmured and reddened the walls.  The roof was high, and at one place the light smoke made hidden exit.  It was dead night.  Even in the daytime the glen was a solitary place.

Alexander put down his cloak.  He looked about the place, then, squarely turning, looked at Ian.  Long time had passed since they had spoken each to other in Rome.  Now they stood in that ancient haunt where the very making of the fire sang of the old always-done, never-to-be-omitted, here in the cave.  The light was sufficient for each to study the other’s face.  Alexander spoke: 

“You have changed.”

“And you.  Let us sit down.  There is much that I want to say.”

They sat, and again it was as they used to do, with the fire between them, but out of plane, so that they might fully view each other.  The cave kept stillness.  Subtly and silently its walls became penetrable.  They crumbled, dissolved.  Around now was space and the two were men.

Ian looked worn, with a lined face.  But the old brown-gold splendor, though dusked over, drew yet.  No one might feel him negligible.  And something was there, quivering in the dusk....  He and Alexander rested without speech—­or rather about them whirled inaudible speech—­ intuitions, divinations.  At last words formed themselves.  Ian spoke: 

“I came from France on the chance that you were here....  For a long time I have been driven, driven, by one with a scourge.  Then that changed to a longing.  At last I resolved....  The driving was within—­as within as longing and determination.  I have heard Aunt Alison say that every myth, all world stories, are but symbols, figures, of what goes on within.  Well, I have found out about the Furies, and about some other myths.”