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Covenant could not make out his face。 Again he raised the knife； again he drove it with all his might into that vulnerable breast。 Only then did he see that the man was himself。
He lurched as if the blank sky had struck him； and flopped over onto his chest to hide his face； conceal his wound。
When he remembered the snow in which he lay； he got quavering to his feet and limped on into the late afternoon。
Before long； he came to a hillside he could not master。 He flung himself at it； limped and crawled at it as hard as he could。 But he was exhausted and crippled。 He turned left and stumbled along the slope； seeking a place where he could ascend； but then inexplicably he found himself rolling downward。 When he tumbled to a stop at the bottom； he rested for a while in confusion。 He must have crossed the top without knowing it。 He hauled himself up again； gasping； and went on。
The next hill was no better。 But he had to master it。 When he could not drive himself upward any farther； he turned to the left again； always left and up； though for some strange reason this seemed to take him down toward the river。
After a short distance he found a trail in the snow。
Part of him knew that he should be dismayed； but he felt only relief； hope。 A trail meant that someone had passed this way…passed recently； or the wind would have effaced the marks。 And that someone might help him。
He needed help。 He was freezing； starving； failing。 Under its crust of scab and ice； his ankle was still bleeding。 He had reached the infinitude of his impotence； his inefficacy； the point beyond which he could not keep going； could not believe； envision； hope that continuation； life； was possible。 He needed whoever or whatever had made that trail to decide his fate for him。
He followed it to the left； downward； into a hollow between hills。 He kept his eyes on the trail immediately before him； fearing to look up and find that the maker of the trail was out of sight； out of reach。 He saw where the maker had fallen； shed blood； rested； limped onward。 Soon he met the next hill and began crawling up it along the crawling trail。 He was desperate…alone and impoverished as he had never before been in the Land。
But at last he recognized the truth。 When the trail turned； crawled away to the left； fell back down the hillside； he could no longer deny that he had been following himself； that the trail was his own； a circle between hills he could not master。
With a thick moan； he passed the boundary。 His last strength fell out of him。 Keen gleams winked across the dark gulf behind his closed eyes； but he could not answer them。 He fell backward； slid down the hill into a low snowdrift。
Yet even then his ordeal continued。 His fall uncovered something in the snow。 While he lay gasping helplessly； felt his heart tremble toward failure in his chest； a smell intruded on him。 Despite the cold； it demanded his notice； it rose piquant and seductive in his face； ran into him on every breath； pelled him to respond。 He propped himself up on quivering arms； and wiped the snow away with dead fingers。
He found grass growing under the snowdrift。 Somehow its potent life refused to be quenched； even a few yellow flowers blossomed under the weight of the snow。 And their sharp aroma caught hold of him。 His hands were useless for plucking； so he knocked some of the ice from around his mouth。 Then he lowered his face to the grass； tore up blades with his teeth and ate them。
As he swallowed the grass； its juice seemed to flow straight to his muscles like the energy of madness。 The suddenness of the infusion caught him unaware。 As he bent for a fourth bite； a convulsion came over him； and he collapsed into a rigid fetal position while raw power raged through his veins。
For an instant； he screamed in agony。 But at once he passed beyond himself into a bleak wilderland where nothing but winter and wind and malice existed。 He felt Lord Foul's preternatural assault on a level that was not sight or hearing or touch； but rather a paction of all his senses。 The nerves of his soul ached as if they had been laid bare to the livid ill。 And in the core of this perception； a thought struck him； stabbed into him as if it were the spear point of the winter。 He identified the thing he did not understand。
It was magic。
A suggestion of keen gleams penumbraed the thought； then receded。 Magic： eldritch power； theurgy。 Such a thing did not exist； could not exist。
Yet it was part of the Land。 And it was denied to him。 The thought turned painfully in him as cruel hands twisted the spear。
He had heard Mhoram say； You are the white gold。 What did that mean？ He had no power。 The dream was his； but he could not share its life…force。 Its life…force was what proved it to be a dream。 Magic： power。 It sprang from him； and he could not touch it。 It was impossible。 With the Land's doom locked in the irremediable white gold circle of his ring； he was helpless to save himself。
Gripped by an inchoate conviction； where prophecy and madness became indistinguishable； he flung himself around the contradiction and tried to contain it； make it all one within him。
But then it faded in a scatter of keen alien gleaming。 He found himself on his feet without any knowledge of how he had climbed erect。 The gleams danced about his head like silent melody。 The wild light of the grass played through his veins and muscles； elevating inanition and cold to the stature of gaunt priests presiding over an unholy sacrifice。 He laughed at the immense prospect of his futility。 The folly of his attempts to survive alone amused him。
He was going to die a leper's death。
His laughter scaled up into high gibbering mirth。 Stumbling； limping； falling； lurching up and limping again； he followed the music toward the dark trees。
He laughed every time he fell； unable to contain the secret humor of his distress； the frozen agony grinding in his ankle drew shrill peals from him like screams。 But though he was impatient now for the end； eager for any blank damnable repose； still the keen gleams carried him along。 Advancing and receding； urging； sprinkling his way like glaucous petals of ambergris； they made him rise after each fall and continue toward the outskirts of the forest。
After a while； he began to think that the trees were singing to him。 The gleams which fraught the air fell about him in alien intervals； like moist； blue…green shines of woodsong。 But he could neither see nor hear them； they were apparent only to the restless energy in his veins。 When in his wildness he tried to pluck them as if they were aliantha； they strewed themselves beyond his reach； enticing him on and on again after each fall until he found himself among the first winter…black trunks。
As he wended through the marge of the forest； he felt an unexpected diminution of the cold。 Daylight was dying out of the ashen sky behind him； and ahead lay nothing but the brooding bloom of the forest depths。 Yet the winter seemed to ease rather than sharpen with the ing of night。 Shambling onward； he soon discovered that the snow thinned as he moved deeper among the