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Here, perhaps, in this strange
forgotten wilderness of rhododendra.
He turned off from the track and wandered among the bushes. One
might lie down anywhere here. But not yet; it was as yet barely
twilight. He consulted his watch. HALF-PAST SEVEN.
Nearly dinner-time. . . .
No doubt Christian during the earlier stages of his pilgrimage
noticed the recurrence of the old familiar hours of his life of
emptiness and vanity. Or rather of vanity--simply. Why drag in the
thought of emptiness just at this point? . . .
It was very early to go to bed.
He might perhaps sit and think for a time. Here for example was a
mossy bank, a seat, and presently a bed. So far there were only
three stars visible but more would come. He dropped into a
reclining attitude. DAMP!
When one thinks of sleeping out under the stars one is apt to forget
the dew.
He spread his Swiss cloak out on the soft thick carpeting of herbs
and moss, and arranged his knapsack as a pillow. Here he would lie
and recapitulate the thoughts of the day. (That squealing might be
a young fox.


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