He released the two pliable sycamore-branches and let his hands sink down; while the thick, cool leaves of the young trees, so resilient and sturdy on their smooth purplish stalks, flapped against his forehead.

“The spirit of this hill escapes me,” he thought. “I have an inkling that it is even now watching me with definite malignity. But I can’t understand the nature of what it threatens. There are powers here⁠ ⁠… powers⁠ ⁠… though, by God! they may be only chemical. But what is chemical?⁠ ⁠…”

He turned his eyes almost petulantly to the southwestern limits of the valley, to where Leo’s Hill and Nevilton Hill broke the level expanse.

“Those hills are not like this one,” he thought; “and as for Glastonbury, it’s like the pollen-bearing pistil of the whole lotus-vale! But this place⁠ ⁠… on my soul, it has something about it that makes me think of Mr. Urquhart. It’s watching me. And I believe at this moment it is making love to Gerda!”