Shrill and wild, with the whistling of the wind past his ears, he caught
its pursuing tones; but in anger now, no longer soft and coaxing. And it
was accompanied; she did not follow alone. It seemed a host of these
flying figures of the snow chased madly just behind him. He felt them
furiously smite his neck and cheeks, snatch at his hands and try to
entangle his feet and ski in drifts. His eyes they blinded, and they
caught his breath away. The terror of the heights and snow and winter desolation urged him
forward in the maddest race with death a human being ever knew; and so
terrific was the speed that before the gold and crimson had left the
summits to touch the ice-lips of the lower glaciers, he saw the friendly
forest far beneath swing up and welcome him. And it was then, moving slowly along the edge of the woods, he saw a
light. A man was carrying it. A procession of human figures was passing
in a dark line laboriously through the snow. And--he heard the sound of
chanting. Instinctively, without a second's hesitation, he changed his course. No
longer flying at an angle as before, he pointed his ski straight down
the mountain-side. The dreadful steepness did not frighten him. He knew
full well it meant a crashing tumble at the bottom, but he also knew it
meant a doubling of his speed--with safety at the end. For, though no
definite thought passed through his mind, he understood that it was the
village _cure_ who carried that little gleaming lantern in the dawn, and
that he was taking the Host to a chalet on the lower slopes--to some
peasant _in extremis_. He remembered her terror of the church and bells. She feared the holy symbols. There was one last wild cry in his ears as he started, a shriek of the
wind before his face, and a rush of stinging snow against closed
eyelids--and then he dropped through empty space. Speed took sight from
him. It seemed he flew off the surface of the world. *       *       *       *       *

Indistinctly he recalls the murmur of men's voices, the touch of strong
arms that lifted him, and the shooting pains as the ski were unfastened
from the twisted ankle ... for when he opened his eyes again to normal
life he found himself lying in his bed at the post office with the
doctor at his side. But for years to come the story of "mad Hibbert's"
ski-ing at night is recounted in that mountain village. He went, it
seems, up slopes, and to a height that no man in his senses ever tried
before. The tourists were agog about it for the rest of the season, and
the very same day two of the bolder men went over the actual ground and
photographed the slopes. Later Hibbert saw these photographs. He noticed
one curious thing about them--though he did not mention it to any one:

There was only a single track. *       *       *       *       *




_Sand_

I


As Felix Henriot came through the streets that January night the fog was
stifling, but when he reached his little flat upon the top floor there
came a sound of wind. Wind was stirring about the world. It blew against
his windows, but at first so faintly that he hardly noticed it. Then,
with an abrupt rise and fall like a wailing voice that sought to claim
attention, it called him. He peered through the window into the blurred
darkness, listening. There is no cry in the world like that of the homeless wind. A vague
excitement, scarcely to be analysed, ran through his blood. The curtain
of fog waved momentarily aside. Henriot fancied a star peeped down at
him. "It will change things a bit--at last," he sighed, settling back into
his chair. "It will bring movement!" Already something in himself had changed. A restlessness, as of that
wandering wind, woke in his heart--the desire to be off and away. Other
things could rouse this wildness too: falling water, the singing of a
bird, an odour of wood-fire, a glimpse of winding road. But the cry of
wind, always searching, questioning, travelling the world's great
routes, remained ever the master-touch. High longing took his mood in
hand. Mid seven millions he felt suddenly--lonely. "I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
    I hear it in the deep heart's core." He murmured the words over softly to himself. The emotion that produced
Innisfree passed strongly through him. He too would be over the hills
and far away. He craved movement, change, adventure--somewhere far from
shops and crowds and motor-'busses. For a week the fog had stifled
London. This wind brought life. Where should he go? Desire was long; his purse was short. He glanced at his books, letters, newspapers. They had no interest now. Instead he listened. The panorama of other journeys rolled in colour
through the little room, flying on one another's heels. Henriot enjoyed
this remembered essence of his travels more than the travels themselves. The crying wind brought so many voices, all of them seductive:

There was a soft crashing of waves upon the Black Sea shores, where the
huge Caucasus beckoned in the sky beyond; a rustling in the umbrella
pines and cactus at Marseilles, whence magic steamers start about the
world like flying dreams. He heard the plash of fountains upon Mount
Ida's slopes, and the whisper of the tamarisk on Marathon. It was dawn
once more upon the Ionian Sea, and he smelt the perfume of the Cyclades. Blue-veiled islands melted in the sunshine, and across the dewy lawns of
Tempe, moistened by the spray of many waterfalls, he saw--Great Heavens
above!--the dancing of white forms ... or was it only mist the sunshine
painted against Pelion?... "Methought, among the lawns together, we
wandered underneath the young grey dawn. And multitudes of dense white
fleecy clouds shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind...."

And then, into his stuffy room, slipped the singing perfume of a
wall-flower on a ruined tower, and with it the sweetness of hot ivy. He
heard the "yellow bees in the ivy bloom." Wind whipped over the open
hills--this very wind that laboured drearily through the London fog. And--he was caught. The darkness melted from the city. The fog whisked
off into an azure sky. The roar of traffic turned into booming of the
sea. There was a whistling among cordage, and the floor swayed to and
fro. He saw a sailor touch his cap and pocket the two-franc piece. The
syren hooted--ominous sound that had started him on many a journey of
adventure--and the roar of London became mere insignificant clatter of a
child's toy carriages. He loved that syren's call; there was something deep and pitiless in it. It drew the wanderers forth from cities everywhere: "Leave your known
world behind you, and come with me for better or for worse! The anchor
is up; it is too late to change. Only--beware! You shall know curious
things--and alone!" Henriot stirred uneasily in his chair.