Dick's Desertion by Marjorie Pickthall — Read

From the night of Peter Many-Names' arrival at the sugar-camp, Dick had / yielded himself utterly to his dreams. Home, duty, Stephanie, all this / had become as a shadow before the wonder and delight which the thought / of freedom held. And when the time came, he had shaken off all ties of / affection, all thoughts of right and gratitude, and had turned north to / the country of his longings. At last, at last, the skies were blue for / him, the airs were fresh for him, the world was wide for him, he could / follow where he would and none should call him back. Of probable / consequences he did not think. The struggle was over, and, though he / knew he had chosen ill instead of good, the knowledge troubled him / little. Was it not enough that the humdrum round of toil lay far / behind him, and that all before and on every side of the land was fair / with spring?

At the time he found it enough -- enough to fairly intoxicate him with / delight. In this spirit he began his wanderings, and the days passed / in golden dreams of beauty and of freedom. He followed in utter / content wherever Peter Many-Names chose to lead, caring nothing so that / he might eat and sleep and dream and wander on again, guided by any / stream that ran, any wind that blew. After a while he lost count of / time, lost count of distance, and was still content. Left to himself, / he would have gone on thus indefinitely; but he was held by a keener, / harder intellect than his own.