SON OF THE WIND
He knew himself to be in the shadow of pines, yet at the same time it appeared to him they were prone around his feet, shriveled to nothing, dead, leaving him pitilessly exposed under the heavens. Everything had a curious dual aspect, even himself. He was Carron, an indifferent Carron who had come to the end of his determinations and desires, Carron still. But there was this other person who was hurrying with such resolution on an errand he could not disclose.
He was a strange fellow. He went as if he had an appointment with himself. There was an oath to be fulfilled somewhere. Carron felt a little curious about it—a vague, mild curiosity, far on the outside. The heart that was pounding on his ribs must be this fellow's. There was nothing that could make Carron's heart beat like that. He wondered, if they went very far together, they might not become friends, and explain themselves, and understand each other. There was plenty of time for it—an endless amount of time, and nothing but that to put in it. Yet the second person was in haste, and, perforce, he was dragging Carron with him. Time was the solid thing to be walked on, space the chilly, intangible power that wrapped his face and shoulders, stirred his hair, and made him shiver. He had heard there was no end to either of these things, and just as he was becoming convinced of the truth
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