himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood.
But even as he entered, he turned, and looked to the west. The rim of
the red was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "Now,"
said Photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness
he had not proved. The moment the sun began to sink among the spikes
and saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart a fear
inexplicable laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything
of the kind before, the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun
sank, it rose like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and
darker. He could not even think what it might be, so utterly did it
enfeeble him. When the last flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out
like a lamp, his horror seemed to blossom into very madness. Like the
closing lids of an eye--for there was no twilight, and this night no
moon--the terror and the darkness rushed together, and he knew them
for one. He was no longer the man he had known, or rather thought
himself. The courage he had had was in no sense his own--he had only
had courage, not been courageous; it had left him, and he could
scarcely stand--certainly not stand straight, for not one of his
joints could he make stiff or keep from trembling. He was but a spark
of the sun, in himself nothing.

The beast was behind him--stealing upon him! He turned. All was dark
in the wood, but to his fancy the darkness here and there broke into
pairs of green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise his
bow-hand from his side. In the strength of despair he strove to rouse
courage enough--not to fight--that he did not even desire--but to run.
Courage to flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it would not
come. But what he had not, was ignominiously given him. A cry in the
wood, half a screech, half a growl, sent him running like a
boar-wounded cur. It was not even himself that ran, it was the fear