For a moment he could not believe that it came from his own pale lips until he found himself speaking.

He rose to his feet, tingling with shame, and began hurriedly to descend the mountain.
He would go to them, tell them of his discovery, let them give him his share, and leave them forever.

It was the only thing to be done, strange that he had not thought of it at once.

Yet it was hard, very hard and cruel to be forced to meet them again.

What had he done to suffer this mortification?
For a moment he actually hated this vulgar treasure that had forever buried under its gross ponderability the light and careless past, and utterly crushed out the poetry of their old, indolent, happy existence.
He was sure to find them waiting at the Cross Roads where the coach came past.