It looked a stupendous ball of red fire--now he could realise at his
ease what a sun it was! The avenue took an abrupt turn to the left
and began to descend steeply.

A wide, rolling river of clear and dark water was visible in front of
him, no great way off. It flowed from north to south. The forest
path led him straight to its banks. Maskull stood there, and
regarded the lapping, gurgling waters pensively. On the opposite
bank, the forest continued. Miles to the south, Poolingdred could
just be distinguished. On the northern skyline the Ifdawn Mountains
loomed up--high, wild, beautiful, and dangerous. They were not a
dozen miles away.

Like the first mutterings of a thunderstorm, the first faint breaths
of cool wind, Maskull felt the stirrings of passion in his heart. In
spite of his bodily fatigue, he in wished to test his strength
against something. This craving he identified with the crags of the
Marest. They seemed to have the same magical attraction for his will
as the lodestone for iron. He kept biting his nails, as he turned
his eyes in that direction--wondering if it would not be possible to
conquer the heights that evening. But when he glanced back again at
Poolingdred, he remembered Joiwind and Panawe, and grew more
tranquil. He decided to make his bed at this spot, and to set off as
soon after daybreak as he should awake.

He drank at the river, washed himself, and lay down on the bank to
sleep. By this time, so far had his idea progressed, that he cared
nothing for the possible dangers of the night--he confided in his
star.