he second madness of Shepherd Toller. Things from the abyss of
Time that float upwards into dreams--sleeping things whose breath
sometimes breaks the surface of our waking consciousness, like bubbles
rising from the depths of Lethe--these had become the sober certainties
of Toller's life. The superincumbent waters had parted asunder, and the
children of the deep were all astir. Toller had awakened into a past
which lies beyond the graves of buried races and had joined his fathers
in the morning of the world.

* * * * *

Towards the end of the summer Toller's health began to decline. He was
attacked by fierce paroxysms of internal pain, which left him weak and
helpless. The distant forays had to be abandoned; there was no more
slinging of stones; he had great difficulty in obtaining food. He craved
most for milk, and this he procured at considerable risk of discovery by
descending before dawn into the lowlands and milking, or partially
milking, one of the Perryman cows; for the animals knew his voice and
were accustomed to his touch.

This was the posture of his affairs when one day he became apprised of
the presence in the neighbourhood of the picnic-party aforesaid. He
stalked them with care, saw the preparation of their meal, eyed the
large basket carried by the grooms, and thought with longing of the tea
it was sure to contain, and of the brandy that might be there also. To
be possessed of one or both of these things would at that moment have
satisfied the all-inclusive desire of the sick man's soul, and he
thought of every possible device and contrivance by which he could get
them into his hands. None promised well. At last he half resolved on the
desperate plan of scaring the pleasure-seekers from their camp by
bombarding the ground with stones--a plan which he remembered to have
proved effective with a party of ladies on Clun Downs. But he doubted
his strength for such a sustained effort, and reflected that a party
which contained so many men, even if forced to retreat, would be sure to
take their provender with them. While he was thus reflecting he saw the
kettle hoisted on the tripod, shining and glinting in the sun. Never had
Toller beheld a more tempting mark. The range was easy; his station was
well hidden; and the kettle was the hated symbol of his disappointed
hopes. "One more, and then I've done," I sez to myself--thus he reported
to Snarley Bob--"and I went back for the ol