FLIGHT FROM THE PRINCE'S CASTLE 317 



take us much out of our way to ride round by the 

 kosh, although AH protested vigorously at the delay. 



The morning sun blazed on the distant towering 

 peaks, turning to cloth of gold the fringed snow 

 patches, filtering down in slanting shafts to the far 

 dim valleys, searching out the rifts in the serried ranks 

 of trees. 



Mazan was not with his flock, nor in his little 

 shelter. For the first time since we came to make a 

 custom of calling the bent old figure was absent, and 

 the sheep roamed as they listed. 



We were silent as we crossed a divide bordering the 

 rock-strewn hill-side. Mazan not with his flock ! Then 

 we could not say " Good-bye." Mazan not with his 

 flock ! And yet — he was ! 



In a deep crevice into which the unwary might fall, 

 but surely not our even-footed shepherd, lay a tatter- 

 demalion figure, his face to the sun. His hand still 

 clasped a few picked stones, and all the stones were 

 white. 



But — was it Mazan, so transfigured ! On his 

 furrowed countenance was graven that shadowy 

 aloofness, that marvellous distant peace, by which the 

 meanest man is glorified to majesty. Azrael had come 

 for the toiler like a breath of the morning. Mazan had 

 gone home. 



Down in the beech wood, breaking the silence, a 

 thrush, silver-throated, sang his song to the sun. Into 

 it he wove a gentle requiem, with little trills of joy and 

 thankfulness. Up and up the alluring notes soared to 

 the sky, vibrant, melodious, triumphant. 



