At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened. Another field crossed⁠—a lane threaded⁠—and there were the courtyard walls⁠—the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. “My first view of it shall be in front,” I determined, “where its bold battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out my master’s very window: perhaps he will be standing at it⁠—he rises early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in front. Could I but see him!⁠—but a moment! Surely, in that case, I should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell⁠—I am not certain. And if I did⁠—what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the tideless sea of the south.”