sacred longing; in their sluggish blood there still beats a pulse in
spring-time, as the sap stirs in the ancient tree; but the young turn to
the open fields with rapture, and drink the returning sunbeams in like
wine. To draw breath beneath the broad sky is to them an intoxication,
and the very air kisses their cheek like the red lips of love.

With his face set ever southward or westward, Richard Yorke has traveled
afoot for days, nor yet has tired; neither coach nor train has carried
him, and all the luggage that he possesses is in the knapsack on his
back, to which is strapped his sketch-book, like a shield. He is
striding across a heath-clad moor, with stony ridges, and here and there
a distant mine-chimney--a desolate barren scene enough, but with
sunshine, and a breeze from the unseen sea. It is classic ground, for
here, or hereabouts, twelve centuries ago, was fought "that last weird
battle in the west," wherein King Arthur perished, and many a gallant
knight, Lancelot, or Galahad, may have pricked across that Cornish moor
before him on a less promising quest than even his. How silent and how
solitary it was; for even what men were near were underground, and not a
roof to be seen any where, nor track of man nor beast, nor even a tree.
There had been men enough, and beasts and trees too, in old
times--heathen and ravening creatures, and huge forests; but it seemed,
as the wayfarer looked around him, as though all things had been as he
now beheld them from the beginning of creation. Richard, artist though
he was by calling, had not the soul to take pleasure in a picture for
the filling in of which so much imagination was required; and he turned
aside to one of the stony hills, and climbed it, in hopes to see some
dwelling-place of man. He was gregarious by nature, and, besides, he was
in want of his mid-day meal.

There was feast enough before him for his eyes.