Jovial voices are chatting round the fire.

What has he to do with youth, and health, and joy?
Lower, lower, ye clouds!--Shut out that insolent and intruding spark, till nothing be seen but the silver sheet of Cwm Fynnon, and the silver zig-zag lines which wander into it among black morass, while down the mountain side go, softly sliding, troops of white mist-angels.
Softly they slide, swift and yet motionless, as if by some inner will, which needs no force of limbs; gliding gently round the crags, diving gently off into the abyss, their long white robes trailing about their feet in upward-floating folds.

"Let us go hence," they seem to whisper to the God-forsaken, as legends say they whispered, when they left their doomed shrine in old Jerusalem.

Let the white fringe fall between him and the last of that fair troop; let the grey curtain follow, the black pall above descend; till he is alone in darkness that may be felt, and in the shadow of death.
Now he is safe at last; hidden from all living things--hidden it may be, from God; for at least God is hidden from him.

He has desired to be alone: and he is alone; the centre of the universe, if universe there be.