midday
Say what I might , I could not induce Halifax to join in `` the quest of Throppes wife '' ; it savoured too much of quixotry for sober-minded Halifax . I now realised that the quest must be a solitary one , and I consoled myself with the thought that , if the ardours of the pilgrimage were unshared , so would be the glory of the prize . Fired with new enthusiasm , I shouted the name of Throp 's wife to the everlasting hills , and the everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating echoes -- `` Throp 's wahfe . '' By midday I had reached the summit of Stanbury Moor , and the question was whether I should descend the populous Worth Valley to Keighley or strike northwards across the hills . Instinct impelled me to the latter course , and instinct was right . Late in the afternoon , faint but pursuing , I reached a hill-top village which the map seemed to identify with a certain Cowling Hill , but which was always spoken of as Cohen-eead . I made my way to `` The Golden Fleece , '' and there , in the bar parlour , I met an old man and a merry .