I must get into the world again.' At first his legs bent like bad pipe-stems, and the flood and rush of the sunlit air dazzled him.

He squatted by the white wall, the mind rummaging among the incidents of the long dooli journey, the lama's weaknesses, and, now that the stimulus of talk was removed, his own self-pity, of which, like the sick, he had great store.

The unnerved brain edged away from all the outside, as a raw horse, once rowelled, sidles from the spur.

It was enough, amply enough, that the spoil of the kilta was away--off his hands--out of his possession.

He tried to think of the lama--to wonder why he had tumbled into a brook--but the bigness of the world, seen between the forecourt gates, swept linked thought aside.