It said not yet five⁠—it was in fact considerably earlier, twelve, thirteen minutes. Preposterous! Could it be he had lain here in the snow only ten minutes or so, while all these scenes of horror and delight and those presumptuous thoughts had spun themselves in his brain, and the hexagonal hurly vanished as it came? If that were true, then he must be grateful for his good fortune; that is, from the point of view of a safe homecoming. For twice such a turn had come, in his dream and fantasy, as had made him start up⁠—once from horror, and again for rapture. It seemed, indeed, that life meant well by her lone-wandering delicate child.