But the habit was rooted deep in me; Rosinante was
prosaic and trustworthy; the country for miles around familiar to me
as the palm of my hand. Yet so deeply was I involved, and so steadily
had we journeyed on, that when at last I lifted my eyes with a great
sigh that was almost a sob, I found myself in a place utterly unknown
to me.
But more inexplicable yet, not only was the place strange, but, by
some incredible wizardry, Rosinante seemed to have carried me out of a
March morning, blue and tumultuous and bleak, into the grey, sweet
mist of a midsummer dawn.
I found that we were ambling languidly on across a green and level
moor. Far away, whether of clouds or hills I could not yet tell, rose
cold towers and pinnacles into the last darkness of night. Above us in
the twilight invisible larks climbed among the daybeams, singing as
they flew. A thick dew lay in beads on stick and stalk. We were alone
with the fresh wind of morning and the clear pillars of the East.
On I went, heedless, curious, marvelling; my only desire to press
forward to the goal whereto destiny was directing me.
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