“I hope Mr. Urquhart isn’t a poet too,” he said.

Mr. Otter took no notice of this retort except to fall into a deeper silence than ever; and Wolf’s attention reverted to what he could see of the famous Vale of Blackmore. Every time the hedge grew low, as they jogged along, every time a gate or a gap interrupted its green undulating rampart, he caught a glimpse of that great valley, gathering the twilight about it as a dying god might gather to his heart the cold, wet ashes of his last holocaust.