He watched the surf break gently on the broad shallow reach of sand-ridges that lay between him and the floating ice.

And when he had ridden so far he was not the same man as when he mounted his horse, or at least, his own soul, of which man has hardly permanent possession, had returned to him.

He could now see, over the low mists of his own moods, all the issues of Josephine's case--all, at least, that were revealed to him; for souls are of different stature, and it is as the head is high or low that the battlefield is truly discerned.
Long before he met her he saw Josephine.

She had apparently gone as far as she thought wise, and was amusing herself by making her horse set his feet in the cold surf.

It was a game with the horse and the wavelets that she was playing.