THE SAMURAI
"It would be, of course. Go on telling me of your journey."
"I dread the night. I dread discomfort and bad weather. I only begin to brace up after the second day."
"Don't you worry about losing your way?"
"No. There are cairns and skyline signs. If it wasn't for that, of course we should be worrying with maps the whole time. But I'm only sure of being a man after the second night, and sure of my power to go through."
"And then?"
"Then one begins to get into it. The first two days one is apt to have the events of one's journey, little incidents of travel and thoughts of one's work and affairs, rising and fading and coming again; but then the perspectives begin. I don't sleep much at night on these journeys; I lie awake and stare at the stars. About dawn, perhaps, and in the morning sunshine, I sleep! The nights this last time were very short, never more than twilight, and I saw the glow of the sun always, just over the edge of the world. But I had chosen the days of the new moon, so that I could have a glimpse of the stars. . . . Years ago, I went from the Nile across the Libyan Desert east, and then the stars—the stars in the later days of that journey—brought me near weeping. . . . You begin to feel alone on the third day, when you find yourself out on some shining snowfield, and nothing of mankind visible in the whole world save one landmark, one remote thin red triangle of iron perhaps, in the saddle of the ridge against the sky. All
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