Abruptly Vanamee rose.

He knew the night that was before him.

At intervals throughout the course of his prolonged wanderings, in the desert, on the mesa, deep in the canon, lost and forgotten on the flanks of unnamed mountains, alone under the stars and under the moon's white eye, these hours came to him, his grief recoiling upon him like the recoil of a vast and terrible engine.
Then he must fight out the night, wrestling with his sorrow, praying sometimes, incoherent, hardly conscious, asking "Why" of the night and of the stars.
Such another night had come to him now.

Until dawn he knew he must struggle with his grief, torn with memories, his imagination assaulted with visions of a vanished happiness.

If this paroxysm of sorrow was to assail him again that night, there was but one place for him to be.