THE SUN BEHIND 19 



the reopening of spring. The natural gloom of 

 the hawthorn caverns is scarcely deepened by the 

 frosting of the crystal dome above them, but the 

 fog gives them the mystery of a cathedral when 

 the verger has turned the lights out. 



I am within thirty paces of a small herd of 

 magnificent bucks before I see them moving like 

 faint stains in a screen of wool. They are feeding 

 along a line that crosses obliquely in front, and I 

 move cautiously further up towards the point of 

 intersection. I should have come round a big 

 holly bush, and stood face to face with them, if 

 there had not been one more than I reckoned for. 

 Perhaps he saw me, and stalked me as I stalked 

 his fellows. He burst away from about four yards 

 on my left, while the herd was about fifteen yards 

 away. Off they go with staggering bounds, making 

 more noise than usual, partly because of the fright 

 they have had, partly because the fog hinders 

 them from choosing their footsteps as a deer in- 

 stinctively does in daylight. 



As I climb the hill it is seen that the world is not 

 entirely sun-forsaken. As the sun first appears 

 through the fog, it is a disk of palest aluminium 

 across which the mist moves like smoke, sometimes 

 quite obliterating it, sometimes making a half- 

 moon of it, but on the whole giving way. Motion 

 is hopeful. There is nothing down here to contra- 

 dict the feeling that the fog is here for ever, but 

 up there we can see battle in which light must 

 inevitably win. 



