Life was still an adventure, but now
an adventure of a hard, cruel sort, something that needed an answer grim
and dark.
The storm was coming up apace. The wind had risen and was now rushing over
the short stiff grass, bellowing out to meet the sea, blowing back to meet
the clouds that raced behind the hill.
The sky was black with clouds. Peter could see the sand rising from the
dunes in a thin mist.
Peter flung himself upon his back. The first drops of rain fell, cold, upon
his face. Then he heard:
"Peter Westcott! Peter Westcott!"
"I'm here!"
"What have you brought to us here?"
"I have brought nothing."
"What have you to offer us?"
"I can offer nothing."
He got up from the ground and faced the wind. He put his back to the
Giant's Finger because of the force of the gale. The rain was coming down
now in torrents.
He felt a great exultation surge through his body.
Then the Voice--not in the rain, nor the wind, nor the sea, but yet all
of these, and coming as it seemed from the very heart of the Hill, came
swinging through the storm--
"Have you cast _This_ away, Peter Westcott?"
"And this?"
"That also--"
"And this?"
"This also?"
"And this?"
"I have flung this, too, away."
"Have you anything now about you that you treasure?"
"I have nothing."
"Friends, ties, ambitions?"
"They are all gone.
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