Me for so many miles - the solemn
quiet, the steady industry, the self-control, the deep woods, of
Lorraine - 1 rose up stiffly from the bank that had been my desk, and
pushed along the lane that ran devious past neglected villages.
The afternoon and the evening followed as I put one mile after another
behind me. The frontier seemed so close that I would not rest. I left
my open wine, the wine I had found outside Belfort, untasted, and I
plodded on and on as the light dwindled. I was in a grand wonderment
for Switzerland, and I wished by an immediate effort to conquer the
last miles before night, in spite of my pain. Also, I will confess to
a silly pride in distances, and a desire to be out of France on my
fourth day.
The light still fell, and my resolution stood, though my exhaustion
undermined it. The line of the mountains rose higher against the sky,
and there entered into my pilgrimage for the first time the loneliness
and the mystery of meres. Something of what a man feels in East
England belonged to this last of the plain under the guardian hills.
Everywhere I passed ponds and reeds, and saw the level streaks of
sunset reflected in stagnant waters.
