"But you are coming along with me," Van Brunt said deliberately.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Life's too easy here, I tell you." Fairfax spoke with decision.
"I understand everything, and I am understood. Summer and winter
alternate like the sun flashing through the palings of a fence, the
seasons are a blur of light and shade, and time slips by, and life
slips by, and then ... a wailing in the forest, and the dark. Listen!"

He held up his hand, and the silver thread of the woman's sorrow rose
through the silence and the calm. Fairfax joined in softly.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-a-haa-ha-a-ha-aa-a-a, O-o-o-o-o-o-a-ha-a-ha-a," he sang.
"Can't you hear it? Can't you see it? The women mourning? the funeral
chant? my hair white-locked and patriarchal? my skins wrapped in rude
splendor about me? my hunting-spear by my side? And who shall say it
is not well?"

Van Brunt looked at him coolly. "Fairfax, you are a damned fool. Five
years of this is enough to knock any man, and you are in an unhealthy,
morbid condition. Further, Carlton Southwaithe is dead."

Van Brunt filled his pipe and lighted it, the while watching slyly
and with almost professional interest. Fairfax's eyes flashed on the
instant, his fists clenched, he half rose up, then his muscles relaxed
and he seemed to brood. Michael, the cook, signalled that the meal was
ready, but Van Brunt motioned back to delay. The silence hung heavy,