So away--away rides Barnabas by village green and lonely cot, past
hedge and gate and barn, up hill and down hill,--away from the dirt
and noise of London, away from its joys and sorrows, its splendors
and its miseries, and from the oncoming, engulfing shadow. Spur and
gallop, Barnabas,--ride, youth, ride! for the shadow has already
touched you, even as the madman said.
Therefore while youth yet abides, while the sun yet shines,--ride,
Barnabas, ride!
Now as he went, Barnabas presently espied a leafy by-lane, and
across this lane a fence had been erected,--a high fence, but with a
fair "take-off" and consequently, a most inviting fence. At this,
forthwith, Barnabas rode, steadied Four-legs in his stride, touched
him with the spur, and cleared it with a foot to spare. Then, all at
once, he drew rein and paced over the dewy grass to where, beneath
the hedge, was a solitary man who knelt before a fire of twigs
fanning it to a blaze with his wide-eaved hat.
He was a slender man, and something stooping of shoulder, and his
hair shone silver-white in the sunshine. Hearing Barnabas approach,
he looked up, rose to his feet, and so stood staring as one in doubt.
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