This, in point of fact, is
the road, and by following it carefully I have managed to escape
collision with trees, bushes, stone walls. The continuous shrill
wailing of trees' branches writhing unseen but near, and the great
hoarse roar of the sea against the rocks far down below, are no
cheerful accompaniment for the buffeted pilgrim. He feels that he is
engaged in single combat with Nature at her unfriendliest. He isn't
sure that she hasn't supernatural allies working with her--witches on
broomsticks circling closely round him, demons in pursuit of him or
waiting to leap out on him. And how about mere robbers and cutthroats?
Suppose--but look! that streak, yonder, look!--the Golden Drugget.
There it is, familiar, serene, festal. That the pilgrim knew he would
see it in due time does not diminish for him the queer joy of seeing
it; nay, this emotion would be far less without that foreknowledge.
Some things are best at first sight. Others--and here is one of them--
do ever improve by recognition. I remember that when first I beheld
this steady strip of light, shed forth over a threshold level with the
road, it seemed to me conceivably sinister. It brought Stevenson to my
mind: the chink of doubloons and the clash of cutlasses; and I think I
quickened pace as I passed it.
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