peter walked back to his cottage with his mind in a turmoil.

it had been utterly, entirely different from the scene he had pictured to himself. he had not swaggered, he had not stepped on to his platform with an air of assurance. something had gripped him, something indefinable and powerful, and he—peter—had lost the strength to assert his own personality.

it had been there, sure enough, but swayed, [pg 113]dominated, by something outside, beyond him. it had come out from himself, forced out it would seem, into the music of his piping. he had played himself, his own story, to this woman on whom he had never before set eyes.

yet did he not know her? had he never before seen her? peter searched the recesses of his memory, penetrating to its remotest corners, but with no avail.

no; in spite of all searching memory remained a blank. instinct, intuition—call it what you will—said, “you know this woman.” reason said as firmly, “you do not.”

he had reached his cottage by now. he went in and shut the door. he would work. he wanted to soothe his mind. he would throw himself into the quiet calm thoughts of his wanderer.

he pulled paper, pen, and ink towards him and turned resolutely to his manuscript. for over an hour he sat with it before him, then suddenly realized that he had written no single word. it was useless to attempt to write in this mood. a vague unrest was upon him.

peter pushed the papers aside, and leaving the cottage, set off to walk across the moorland.