Before Miltoun, turning to this wind, lay the maze of the lower lands, the misty greens, rose pinks, and browns of the fields, and white and grey dots and strokes of cottages and church towers, fading into the blue veil of distance, confined by a far range of hills.

Behind him there was nothing but the restless surface of the moor, coloured purplish-brown.

On that untamed sea of graven wildness could be seen no ship of man, save one, on the far horizon--the grim hulk, Dartmoor Prison.

There was no sound, no scent, and it seemed to Miltoun as if his spirit had left his body, and become part of the solemnity of God.

Yet, as he stood there, with his head bared, that strange smile which haunted him in moments of deep feeling, showed that he had not surrendered to the Universal, that his own spirit was but being fortified, and that this was the true and secret source of his delight.