thesward
with
joy
at
Phratos’
music
.
“
Then
have
pity
on
the
motherless
creature
,
”
said
Phratos
,
wooingly
.
“
I
buried
that
dead
woman
;
and
her
eyes
,
though
there
was
no
sight
in
them
,
still
seemed
to
pray
to
mine
—
and
to
pray
for
her
child
.
Be
merciful
,
Zarâ
.
Let
the
child
have
the
warmth
of
your
arms
and
the
defence
of
your
strength
.
Be
merciful
,
Zarâ
;
and
your
seed
shall
multiply
and
increase
tenfold
,
and
shall
be
stately
and
strong
,
and
shall
spread
as
the
branches
of
the
plane‐trees
,
on
which
the
storm
spends
its
fury
in
vain
,
and
beneath
which
all
things
of
the
earth
can
find
refuge
.
For
never
was
a
woman’
pity
fruitless
,
nor
the
fair
deeds
of
her
days
without
recompense
.
”
Zarâ
listened
quietly
,
as
the
dreamy
,
poetic
,
persuasive
words
stole
on
her
ear
like
music
.
Like
the
rest
of
her
people
,
she
half
believed
in
him
as
a
seer
and
prophet
;
her
teeth
shone
out
in
a
soft
sudden
smile
.
“
You
are
always
a
fool
,
Phratos
,
”
she
said
;
“
but
it
shall
be
as
you
fancy
.
”
And
she
went
in
out
of
the
moonlit
leaves
and
the
clear
cool
,
autumn
night
into
the
little
dark
stifling
tent
,
where
the
new‐born
child
had
been
laid
away
in
a
corner
upon
a
rough‐and‐ready
bed
of
gathered
dusky
fir‐needles
.
“
It
is
a
little
cub
,
not
worth
the
saving
;
and
its
dam
was
not
of
our
people
,
”
she
said
to
herself
,
as
she
lifted
the
wailing
and
alien
creature
to
her
bosom
.
“
It
is
for
you
,
my
angel
,
that
I
do
it
,
”
she
murmured
,
looking
at
the
sleeping
face
of
her
own
son
.
Outside
the
tent
the
sweet
strains
of
Phratos’
music
rose
sighing
and
soft
;
and
mingling
,
as
sounds
mingle
in
a
dream
,
with
the
murmurs
of
the
forest
leaves
and
the
rushing
of
the
mountain
river
.
He
gave
her
the
only
payment
in
his
power
.
Zarâ
,
hushing
the
strange
child
at
her
breast
,
listened
,
and
was
half‐touched
,
half‐angered
.
“
Why
should
he
play
for
this
little
stray
thing
,
when
he
never
played
once
for
you
,
my
glory
?
”
she
said
to
her
son
,
as
she
put
the
dead
woman’s
child
roughly
away
,
and
took
him
up
in
its
stead
,
to
beat
together
in
play
his
rosy
hands
and
cover
his
mouth
with
kisses
.
For
even
from
these
,
the
world’s
outcasts
,
this
new
life
of
a
few
hours’
span
was
rejected
as
unworthy
and
despised
.
Nevertheless
,
the
music
played
on
through
the
still
forest
night
;
and
nevertheless
,
the
child
grew
and
throve
.
The
tribe
of
Taric
abode
in
the
Liébana
or
in
the
adjacent
country
along
the
banks
of
the
Deva
during
the
space
of
four
years
and
more
,
scarcely
losing
in
that
time
the
sight
,
either
from
near
or
far
,
of
the
rosy
peaks
of
the
Europa
.
He
did
not
abide
with
them
;
he
quarrelled
with
them
violently
concerning
some
division
of
a
capture
of
wineskins
,
and
went
on
his
own
way
to
distant
provinces
and
cities
;
to
the
gambling
and
the
roystering
,
the
woman‐fooling
and
the
bull‐fighting
,
that
his
soul
lusted
after
always
.
His
daughter
he
left
to
dwell
in
the
tent
of
Zarâ
,
and
under
the
defence
of
Phratos
.
Once
or
twice
,
in
sojourns
of
a
night
or
two
amongst
his
own
people
,
as
the
young
creature
grew
in
stature
and
strength
,
Taric
had
glanced
at
her
,
and
called
her
to
him
,
and
felt
the
litheness
of
her
limbs
and
the
weight
of
her
hair
,
and
laughed
as
he
thrust
he
from
him
,
thinking
that
,
in
time
to
come
,
she
—
who
would
know
nothing
of
her
mother’s
dead
God
on
the
cross
,
and
of
her
mother’s
idle
weak
scruples
,
—
might
bring
him
a
fair
provision
in
his
years
of
age
,
when
his
hand
should
have
lost
its
weight
against
men
and
his
form
its
goodliness
in
the
sight
of
women
.
Once
or
twice
he
had
given
her
a
kick
of
his
foot
,
or
blow
with
his
leathern
whip
,
when
she
crawled
in
the
grass
too
near
his
path
,
or
lay
asleep
in
the
sun
as
he
chanced
to
pass
by
her
.
Otherwise
he
had
nought
to
do
with
her
,
absent
or
present
;
otherwise
he
left
her
to
chance
and
the
devil
,
who
were
,
as
he
said
,
according
to
the
Christians
,
the
natural
patrons
and
sponsors
of
all
love
children
.
Chance
and
the
Devil
,
however
,
had
not
wholly
their
way
in
the
Liébana
;
for
beside
them
there
was
Phratos
.
Phratos
never
abandoned
her
.
Under
the
wolfskin
and
pine
boughs
of
Zarâ’s
tent
there
was
misery
very
often
.
Zarâ
had
a
fresh
son
born
to
her
with
each
succeeding
year
;
and
having
a
besotted
love
for
her
own
offspring
,
had
little
but
indifference
and
blows
for
the
stranger
who
shared
their
bed
and
food
.
Her
children
,
brown
and
curly
,
naked
and
strong
,
fought
one
another
like
panther
cubs
,
and
rode
in
a
cluster
like
red
mountain‐ash
berries
in
the
sheep‐skin
round
her
waist
,
and
drank
by
turns
out
of
the
pitcher
of
broth
,
and
slept
all
together
on
dry
ferns
and
mosses
,
rolled
in
warm
balls
one
in
another
like
young
bears
.
But
the
child
who
had
no
affinity
with
them
,
who
was
not
even
wholly
of
their
tribe
,
but
had
in
her
what
they
deemed
the
taint
of
gentile
blood
,
was
not
allowed
to
gnaw
her
bare
bone
or
her
ripe
fig
in
peace
if
they
wished
for
it
;
was
never
carried
with
them
in
the
sheep‐skin
nest
,
but
left
to
totter
after
in
the
dust
or
mud
as
best
she
might
;
was
forced
to
wait
for
the
leavings
in
the
pitcher
,
or
go
without
if
leavings
there
were
none
;
and
was
kicked
away
by
the
sturdy
limbs
of
these
young
males
when
she
tried
to
creep
for
warmth’s
sake
in
amongst
them
on
their
fern
bed
.
But
she
minded
all
this
little
;
since
in
the
Liébana
there
was
Phratos
.
Phratos
was
always
good
to
her
.
The
prayer
which
those
piteous
dead
eyes
had
made
he
always
answered
.
He
had
always
pity
for
the
child
.
Many
a
time
,
but
for
his
remembrance
,
she
would
have
starved
outright
or
died
of
cold
in
those
wild
winters
,
when
the
tribe
huddled
together
in
the
caverns
of
the
limestone
,
and
the
snow‐drifts
were
driven
up
by
northern
winds
and
blocked
them
there
for
many
days
.
Many
a
time
but
for
his
aid
she
would
have
dropped
on
their
march
and
been
left
to
perish
as
she
might
on
the
long
sunburnt
roads
,
in
the
arid
mid‐summers
,
when
they
gypsies
plodded
on
their
dusty
way
through
the
sinuous
windings
of
hill‐side
paths
and
along
the
rough
stones
of
dried‐up
watercourses
,
in
gorges
and
passages
known
alone
to
them
and
the
wild
deer
.
When
her
throat
was
parched
with
the
torment
of
long
thirst
,
it
was
he
who
raised
her
to
drink
from
the
rill
in
the
rock
,
high
above
,
to
which
the
mothers
lifted
their
eager
children
leaving
her
to
gasp
and
gaze
unpitied
.
When
she
was
driven
away
from
the
noonday
meal
by
the
hungry
and
clamorous
youngsters
,
who
would
admit
no
share
of
their
partridge
broth
and
stewed
lentils
,
it
was
he
who
bruised
the
maize
between
the
stones
for
her
eating
,
and
gathered
for
her
the
wild
fruit
of
the
quince
and
the
mulberry
.
When
the
sons
of
Zarâ
had
kicked
and
bruised
and
spurned
her
from
the
tent
,
he
would
lead
her
away
to
some
shadowy
place
where
the
leaves
grew
thickly
,
and
play
her
such
glad
and
bouyant
tunes
that
the
laughter
seemed
to
bubble
from
the
listening
brooks
and
ripple
amongst
the
swinging
boughs
,
and
make
the
wild
hare
skip
with
joy
,
and
draw
the
timid
lizard
from
his
hole
to
frolic
.
And
when
they
way
was
long
,
and
the
stony
paths
cruel
to
her
little
bare
feet
,
he
would
carry
her
aloft
on
his
misshapen
shoulders
,
where
his
old
viol
always
travelled
;
and
would
beguile
the
steep
way
with
a
thousand
quaint
,
soft
,
grotesque
conceits
of
all
the
flowers
and
leaves
and
birds
and
animals
:
talking
rather
to
himself
than
her
,
yet
talking
with
a
tender
fancifulness
,
half
humour
and
half
pathos
,
that
soothed
her
tired
sense
like
a
lullaby
.
Hence
it
came
to
pass
that
the
sole
creature
whom
she
loved
and
who
had
pity
for
her
was
the
uncouth
,
crippled
,
gay
,
sad
,
gentle
,
dauntless
creature
whom
his
tribe
had
always
held
half‐wittol
and
half‐seer
.
Thus
the
life
in
the
hills
of
the
Liébana
went
on
till
the
child
of
Taric
had
entered
her
sixth
year
.
She
had
both
beauty
and
grace
;
she
had
the
old
Moresco
loveliness
in
its
higher
type
;
she
was
fleet
as
the
roe
,
strong
as
the
young
izard
,
wild
as
the
wood‐partridge
on
the
wing
;
she
had
grace
of
limb
from
the
postures
and
dances
with
which
she
taught
herself
to
keep
time
to
the
sweet
,
fantastic
music
of
the
viol
;
she
was
shy
and
sullen
,
and
fierce
and
savage
,
to
all
save
himself
,
for
the
hand
of
every
other
was
against
her
;
but
to
him
,
she
was
docile
as
the
dove
to
the
hand
that
feeds
it
.
He
had
given
her
a
string
of
bright
sequins
to
hang
on
her
hair
,
and
when
the
peasants
of
the
mountains
and
valleys
saw
her
by
the
edge
of
some
green
woodland
pool
,
whirling
by
moonlight
to
the
sound
of
his
melodies
,
they
took
her
to
be
some
unearthly
spirit
,
and
told
wonderful
things
over
their
garlic
of
the
elf
crowned
with
stars
they
had
seen
dancing
on
a
round
lotus
leaf
in
the
hush
of
the
night
.
In
the
Liébana
she
was
beaten
often
,
hungry
almost
always
,
cursed
fiercely
,
driven
away
by
the
mothers
,
mocked
and
flouted
by
the
children
;
and
this
taught
her
silence
and
ferocity
.
Yet
in
the
Liébana
she
was
happy
,
for
one
creature
loved
her
,
and
she
was
free
—
free
to
lie
in
the
long
grass
,
to
bathe
in
the
still
pools
,
to
watch
the
wild
things
of
the
woods
,
to
wander
ankle
deep
in
forest
blossoms
,
to
sleep
under
the
rocking
of
pines
,
to
run
against
the
sweet
force
of
the
wind
,
to
climb
the
trees
and
swing
cradled
in
leaves
,
and
to
look
far
away
at
the
snow
on
the
mountains
,
and
to
dream
,
and
to
love
,
and
to
be
content
in
dreaming
and
loving
,
their
mystical
glory
that
awoke
with
the
sun
.
One
day
in
the
red
autumn
,
Taric
came
;
he
had
been
wholly
absent
more
than
two
years
.
He
was
superb
to
the
sight
still
,
with
matchless
splendour
of
face
and
form
,
but
his
carriage
was
more
reckless
and
disordered
than
ever
,
and
in
his
gem‐like
and
night‐black
eyes
,
there
was
a
look
of
cunning
and
of
subtle
ferocity
new
to
them
.
His
life
had
gone
hardly
with
him
,
and
to
the
indolence
,
the
passions
,
the
rapacity
,
the
slothful
sensuality
of
the
gypsy
—
who
had
retained
all
the
vices
of
his
race
whilst
losing
their
virtues
of
simplicity
in
living
,
and
of
endurance
under
hardship
—
the
gall
of
a
sharp
poverty
had
become
unendurable
:
and
to
live
without
dice
,
and
women
,
and
wine
,
and
boastful
brawling
,
seemed
to
him
to
be
worse
than
any
death
.
The
day
he
returned
,
they
were
still
camped
in
the
Liébana
;
in
one
of
its
narrow
gorges
,
overhung
with
a
thick
growth
of
trees
,
and
coursed
through
by
a
headlong
hillstream
,
that
spread
itself
into
darkling
breadths
and
leafy
pools
,
in
which
the
fish
were
astir
under
great
snowy
lilies
and
a
tangled
web
of
water
plants
.
He
strode
into
the
midst
of
them
,
as
they
sat
round
their
camp‐fire
lit
beneath
a
shelf
of
rock
,
as
his
wont
was
;
and
was
welcomed
and
fed
and
plied
with
such
as
they
had
,
with
that
mixture
of
sullen
respect
and
incurable
attachment
which
his
tribe
preserved
,
through
all
their
quarrels
,
for
this
,
the
finest
and
the
fiercest
,
the
most
fickle
and
the
most
faithless
of
them
all
.
He
gorged
himself
,
and
drank
,
and
said
little
.
When
the
meal
was
done
,
the
young
of
the
tribe
scattered
themselves
in
the
red
evening
light
under
the
great
walnuts
;
some
at
feud
,
some
at
play
.
“
Which
is
mine
?
”
he
asked
,
surveying
the
children
.
They
showed
her
to
him
.
The
sequins
were
round
her
head
;
she
swung
on
a
bough
of
ash
;
the
pool
beneath
mirrored
her
;
she
was
singing
as
children
sing
,
without
words
,
yet
musically
and
gladly
,
catching
at
the
fireflies
that
danced
above
her
in
the
leaves
.
“
Can
she
dance
?
”
he
asked
lazily
of
them
.
“
In
her
own
fashion
,
—
as
a
flower
in
the
wind
,
”
Phratos
answered
him
,
with
a
smile
;
and
willing
to
woo
for
her
the
good
graces
of
her
father
,
he
slung
his
viol
off
his
shoulders
and
tuned
it
,
and
beckoned
the
child
.
She
came
,
knowing
nothing
who
Taric
was
;
he
was
only
to
her
a
fierce‐eyed
man
like
the
rest
,
who
would
beat
her
,
most
likely
,
if
she
stood
between
him
and
the
sun
,
or
overturned
by
mischance
his
horn
of
liquor
.
Phratos
played
,
and
all
the
gypsy
children
,
as
their
wont
was
,
danced
.
But
she
danced
all
alone
,
and
with
a
grace
and
a
fire
that
surpassed
theirs
.
She
was
only
a
baby
still
;
she
had
only
her
quick
ear
to
guide
her
,
and
her
only
teacher
was
such
inborn
instinct
as
makes
the
birds
sing
and
the
young
kids
gambol
.
Yet
she
danced
with
a
wondrous
subtlety
and
intensity
of
ardour
beyond
her
years
;
her
small
brown
limbs
glancing
like
bronze
in
the
fire‐glow
,
the
sequins
flashing
in
her
flying
hair
,
and
her
form
flung
high
in
air
,
like
a
bird
on
the
wing
,
or
a
leaf
on
the
wind
;
never
still
,
never
ceasing
to
dart
,
and
to
leap
,
and
to
whirl
,
and
to
sway
,
yet
always
with
a
sweet
dreamy
indolence
,
even
in
her
fiery
unrest
.
Taric
watched
her
under
his
bent
brow
until
the
music
ceased
,
and
she
dropped
on
the
grass
spent
and
panting
like
a
swallow
after
a
long
ocean
flight
.
“
She
will
do
,
”
he
muttered
.
“
What
is
it
you
mean
with
the
child
?
”
some
women
asked
.
Taric
laughed
.
“
The
little
vermin
is
good
for
a
gold
piece
or
two
,
”
he
answered
.
Phratos
said
nothing
,
but
he
heard
.
After
awhile
the
camp
was
still
;
the
gypsies
slept
.
Two
or
three
of
their
men
went
out
to
try
and
harry
cattle
by
the
light
of
the
moon
if
they
should
be
in
luck
;
two
others
went
forth
to
set
snares
for
the
wood
partridges
and
rabbits
;
the
rest
slumbered
soundly
,
the
dogs
curled
to
a
watching
sleep
of
vigilant
guard
in
their
midst
.
Taric
alone
sat
by
the
dying
fire
.
When
all
was
very
quiet
,
and
the
stars
were
clear
in
the
midnight
skies
,
the
woman
Zarâ
stole
out
of
her
tent
to
him
.
“
You
signed
to
me
,
”
she
said
to
him
in
a
low
voice
.
“
You
want
the
child
killed
?
”
Taric
showed
his
white
teeth
like
a
wolf
.
“
Not
I
;
what
should
I
gain
?
”
“
What
is
it
you
want
,
then
,
with
her
?
”
“
I
mean
to
take
her
,
that
is
all
.
—
See
here
—
a
month
ago
,
on
the
other
side
of
the
mountains
,
I
met
a
fantoccini
player
.
It
was
at
a
wine‐shop
,
hard
by
Luzarches
.
He
had
a
woman‐child
with
him
who
danced
to
his
music
,
and
whom
the
people
praised
for
her
beauty
,
and
who
anticked
like
a
dancing
dog
,
and
who
made
a
great
deal
of
silver
.
We
got
friends
,
he
and
I
.
At
the
week’s
end
the
brat
died
:
some
sickness
of
the
throat
,
they
said
.
Her
master
tore
his
hair
and
raved
;
the
little
wretch
was
worth
handfuls
of
coin
to
him
.
For
such
another
he
would
give
twelve
gold
pieces
.
He
shall
have
her
.
She
will
dance
for
him
and
me
;
there
is
plenty
to
be
made
in
that
way
.
The
women
are
fools
over
a
handsome
child
;
they
open
their
larders
and
their
purses
.
I
shall
take
her
away
before
sunrise
;
he
says
he
teaches
them
in
seven
days
,
by
starving
them
and
giving
them
the
stick
.
She
will
dance
while
she
is
a
child
.
Later
on
—
there
are
the
theatres
;
she
will
be
strong
and
handsome
,
and
in
the
great
cities
,
now
,
a
woman’s
comeliness
is
as
a
mine
of
gold
ore.
I
shall
take
her
away
by
sunrise
.
”
“
To
sell
her
?
”
The
hard
fierce
heart
of
Zarâ
rebelled
against
him
;
she
had
no
tenderness
save
for
her
own
offspring
,
and
she
had
maltreated
the
stray
child
many
a
time
;
yet
the
proud
liberty
and
the
savage
chastity
of
her
race
were
roused
against
him
by
his
words
.
Taric
laughed
again
.
“
Surely
;
why
not
?
I
will
make
a
dancing
dog
of
her
for
the
peasants’
pastime
;
and
in
time
she
will
make
dancing
dogs
of
the
nobles
and
the
princes
for
her
own
sport
.
It
is
a
brave
life
—
none
better
.
”
The
gypsy
woman
stood
,
astonished
and
irresolute
.
If
he
had
flung
his
child
in
the
river
,
or
thrown
her
off
a
rock
,
he
would
have
less
offended
the
instincts
and
prejudices
of
her
clan
.
“
What
will
Phratos
say
?
”
she
asked
at
length
.
“
Phratos
?
A
rotten
fig
for
Phratos
!
What
can
he
say
—
or
do
?
The
little
beast
is
mine
;
I
can
wring
its
neck
if
I
choose
,
and
if
it
refuse
to
pipe
when
we
play
for
it
,
I
will
.
”
The
woman
sought
in
vain
to
dissuade
him
;
he
was
inflexible
.
She
left
him
at
last
,
telling
herself
that
it
was
no
business
of
hers
.
He
had
a
right
to
do
what
he
chose
with
his
own
.
So
went
down
and
lay
down
amongst
her
brown‐faced
boys
,
and
was
indifferent
,
and
slept
.
Taric
likewise
slept
,
upon
a
pile
of
moss
under
the
ledge
of
the
rock
,
lulled
by
the
heat
of
the
fire
,
which
,
ere
lying
down
,
he
had
fed
with
fresh
boughs
of
resinous
wood
.
When
all
was
quite
still
,
and
his
deep
quiet
breathing
told
that
his
slumber
was
not
one
easily
broken
,
a
man
softly
rose
from
the
ground
and
threw
off
a
mass
of
dead
leaves
that
had
covered
him
,
and
stood
erect
,
a
dark
,
strange
,
misshapen
figure
,
in
the
moonlight
:
it
was
Phratos
.
He
had
heard
,
and
understood
all
that
Taric
meant
for
the
present
and
the
future
of
the
child
:
and
he
knew
that
when
Taric
vowed
to
do
a
thing
for
his
own
gain
,
it
were
easier
to
uproot
the
chain
of
the
Europa
than
to
turn
him
aside
from
his
purpose
.
“
It
was
my
doing
!
”
said
Phratos
to
himself
bitterly
,
as
he
stood
there
,
and
his
heart
was
sick
and
sore
in
him
,
as
with
self‐reproach
for
a
crime
.
He
thought
awhile
,
standing
still
in
the
hush
of
the
midnight
;
then
he
went
softly
,
with
a
footfall
that
did
not
waken
a
dog
,
and
lifted
up
the
skins
of
Zarâ’s
tent
as
they
hung
over
the
fir‐poles
.
The
moonbeams
slanting
through
the
foliage
strayed
in
,
and
showed
him
the
woman
,
sleeping
among
her
rosy
robust
children
,
like
a
mastiff
with
her
litter
of
tawny
pups
;
and
away
from
them
,
on
the
bare
ground
closer
to
the
entrance
,
the
slumbering
from
of
the
young
daughter
of
Taric
.
She
woke
as
he
touched
her
,
opening
bright
bewildered
eyes
.
“
Hush
!
it
is
I
,
Phratos
,
”
he
murmured
over
her
,
and
the
stifled
cry
died
on
her
lips
.
He
lifted
her
up
in
his
arms
and
left
the
tent
with
her
,
and
dropped
the
curtain
of
sheepskin
,
and
went
out
into
the
clear
,
crisp
,
autumn
night
.
Her
eyes
had
closed
again
,
and
her
head
had
sunk
on
his
shoulder
heavy
with
sleep
;
she
had
not
tried
to
keep
awake
one
moment
after
knowing
that
it
was
Phratos
who
had
come
for
her
;
she
loved
him
,
and
in
his
hold
feared
nothing
.
Taric
lay
on
the
ledge
of
the
rock
,
deaf
with
the
torpor
of
a
half‐drunken
slumber
,
dreaming
gloomily
;
his
hand
playing
in
his
dreams
with
the
knife
that
was
thrust
in
his
waist‐band
.
Phratos
stepped
gently
past
him
,
and
through
the
outstretched
forms
of
the
dogs
and
men
,
and
across
the
died‐out
embers
of
the
fire
,
over
which
the
emptied
soup‐kettle
still
swung
,
as
the
night‐breeze
blew
to
and
fro
its
chain
.
No
one
heard
him
.
He
went
out
from
their
circle
and
down
the
path
of
the
gorge
in
silence
,
carrying
the
child
.
She
was
folded
in
a
piece
of
sheepskin
,
and
in
her
hair
there
were
still
sequins
.
They
glittered
in
the
white
light
as
he
went
;
as
the
wind
blew
,
it
touched
the
chords
of
the
viol
on
his
shoulder
,
and
struck
a
faint
musical
sighing
sound
from
them
.
“
Is
it
morning
?
”
the
child
murmured
,
half
asleep
.
“
No
,
dear
;
it
is
night
,
”
he
answered
her
,
and
she
was
content
and
slept
again
—
the
strings
of
the
viol
sending
a
soft
whisper
in
her
drowsy
ear
,
each
time
that
the
breeze
arose
and
swept
across
them
.
When
the
morning
came
,
it
found
him
far
on
his
road
,
leaving
behind
him
the
Liébana
.
There
followed
a
bright
month
of
autumn
weather
.
The
child
was
happy
as
she
had
never
been
.
They
moved
on
continually
through
the
plains
and
the
fields
,
the
hills
and
the
woods
,
the
hamlets
and
the
cities
;
but
she
and
the
viol
were
never
weary
.
They
rode
aloft
whist
he
toiled
on
.
Yet
neither
was
he
weary
,
for
the
viol
murmured
in
the
wind
,
and
the
child
laughed
in
the
sunshine
.
It
was
late
in
the
year
.
The
earth
and
the
sky
were
a
blaze
of
russet
and
purple
,
and
scarlet
and
gold
.
The
air
was
keen
and
swift
,
and
strong
like
wine
.
A
summer
fragrance
blended
with
a
winter
frost
.
The
grape
harvest
had
been
gathered
in
,
and
had
been
plentiful
,
and
the
people
were
liberal
and
of
good
humour
.
Sometimes
before
a
wine‐shop
or
beneath
a
balcony
,
or
in
a
broad
market‐square
at
evening
,
Phratos
played
;
and
the
silver
and
copper
coins
were
dropped
fast
to
him
.
When
he
had
enough
by
him
to
get
a
crust
for
himself
,
and
milk
and
fruit
for
her
,
he
did
not
pause
to
play
,
but
moved
on
resolutely
all
the
day
,
resting
at
night
only
.
He
bought
her
a
little
garment
of
red
foxes’
furs
;
her
head
and
feet
were
bare
.
She
bathed
in
clear
running
waters
,
and
slept
in
a
nest
of
hay
.
She
saw
vast
towers
,
and
wondrous
spires
,
and
strange
piles
of
wood
and
stone
,
and
rivers
spanned
by
arches
,
and
great
forests
half
leafless
,
and
plains
red
in
stormy
sunset
light
,
and
towns
that
lay
hid
in
soft
gold
mists
of
vapour
;
and
saw
all
these
as
in
a
dream
,
herself
borne
high
in
air
,
wrapped
warm
in
fur
,
and
lulled
by
the
sweet
familiar
fraternity
of
the
old
viol
.
She
asked
no
questions
,
she
was
content
,
like
a
mole
or
a
dormouse
;
she
was
not
beaten
or
mocked
,
she
was
never
hungry
nor
cold
;
no
one
cursed
her
,
and
she
was
with
Phratos
.
It
takes
time
to
go
on
foot
across
a
great
country
,
and
Phratos
was
nearly
always
on
foot
.
Now
and
then
he
gave
a
coin
or
two
,
or
a
tune
or
two
,
for
a
lift
on
some
straw‐laden
waggon
,
or
some
mule‐cart
full
of
pottery
or
of
vegetables
,
that
was
crawling
on
its
slow
way
through
the
plains
of
the
marshy
lands
,
or
the
poplar
lined
leagues
of
the
public
highways
.
But
as
a
rule
he
plodded
on
by
himself
,
shunning
the
people
of
his
own
race
,
and
shunned
in
return
by
the
ordinary
populace
of
the
places
through
which
he
travelled
.
For
they
knew
him
to
be
a
Spanish
gypsy
,
by
his
skin
and
his
garb
and
his
language
,
and
by
the
starry‐eyed
Arab‐faced
child
who
ran
by
his
side
in
her
red
fur
and
her
flashing
sequins
.
“
There
is
a
curse
written
against
all
honest
folk
on
every
one
of
those
shaking
coins
,
”
the
peasants
muttered
as
she
passed
them
.
She
did
not
comprehend
their
sayings
,
for
she
knew
none
but
her
gypsy
tongue
,
and
that
only
very
imperfectly
;
but
she
knew
by
their
glance
that
they
meant
that
she
was
something
evil
;
and
she
gripped
tighter
Phratos’
hand
—
half‐terrified
,
half‐triumphant
.
The
weather
grew
colder
and
the
ground
harder
.
The
golden
and
scarlet
glories
of
the
south
and
of
the
west
,
their
red
leafage
and
purple
flowers
,
gorgeous
sunsets
and
leaping
waters
,
gave
place
to
the
level
pastures
,
pale
skies
,
leafless
woods
,
and
dim
grey
tints
of
the
northerly
lands
.
The
frosts
became
sharp
,
and
mists
that
came
from
unseen
seas
enveloped
them
.
There
were
marvelous
old
towns
;
cathedral
spires
that
arose
,
ethereal
as
vapour
;
still
dusky
cities
,
aged
with
many
centuries
,
that
seemed
to
sleep
eternally
in
the
watery
halo
of
the
fog
;
green
cultivated
hills
,
from
whose
smooth
brows
the
earth‐touching
clouds
seemed
never
to
lift
themselves
;
straight
sluggish
streams
,
that
flowed
with
leisurely
laziness
through
broad
flat
meadow
lands
,
white
with
snow
and
obscure
with
vapour
.
For
these
they
had
exchanged
the
pomp
of
dying
foliage
,
the
glory
of
crimson
fruits
,
the
fierce
rush
of
the
mistral
,
the
odours
of
the
noël‐born
violets
,
the
fantastic
shapes
of
the
aloes
and
olives
rasing
their
dark
spears
and
their
silvery
network
against
the
amber
fires
of
a
winter
dawn
in
the
rich
south‐west
.
The
child
was
chilled
,
oppressed
,
vaguely
awe‐struck
,
and
disquieted
;
but
she
said
nothing
;
Phratos
was
there
and
the
viol
.
She
missed
the
red
forests
and
the
leaping
torrents
,
and
the
prickly
fruits
,
and
the
smell
of
the
violets
and
the
vineyards
,
and
the
wild
shapes
of
the
cactus
,
and
the
old
myrtles
that
were
hoary
and
contorted
with
age
.
But
she
did
not
complain
nor
ask
any
questions
;
she
had
supreme
faith
in
Phratos
.
One
night
,
at
the
close
of
a
black
day
in
mid‐winter
,
the
sharpest
and
hardest
in
cold
that
hey
had
ever
encountered
,
they
passed
through
a
little
town
whose
roadways
were
mostly
canals
,
and
whose
spires
and
roofs
and
pinnacles
and
turrets
and
towers
were
all
beautiful
with
the
poetry
and
the
majesty
of
a
long
perished
age
.
The
day
had
been
bitter
;
there
was
snow
everywhere
;
great
blocks
of
ice
choked
up
the
water
;
the
belfry
chimes
rang
shrilly
through
the
rarified
air
;
the
few
folks
that
were
astir
were
wrapped
in
wool
or
sheepskin
;
through
the
casements
there
glowed
the
ruddy
flush
of
burning
logs
;
and
the
muffled
watchmen
passing
to
and
fro
in
antique
custom
on
their
rounds
called
out
,
under
the
closed
houses
,
that
it
was
the
eight
of
the
night
in
a
heavy
snowstorm
.
Phratos
paused
in
the
town
at
an
old
hostelry
to
give
the
child
a
hot
drink
of
milk
and
a
roll
of
rye
bread
.
There
he
asked
the
way
the
wood
and
the
mill
of
Yprès
.
They
told
it
him
sullenly
and
suspiciously
:
since
for
a
wild
gypsy
of
Spain
the
shrewd
,
thrifty
,
plain
people
of
the
north
had
no
liking
.
He
thanked
them
,
and
went
on
his
way
,
out
of
the
barriers
of
the
little
town
along
a
road
by
the
river
towards
the
country
.
“
Art
thou
cold
,
dear
?
”
he
asked
her
,
with
more
tenderness
than
common
sense
in
his
voice
.
The
child
shivered
under
her
little
fur
skin
,
which
would
not
keep
out
the
searching
of
the
hurricane
and
the
driving
of
the
snowflakes
;
but
she
drew
her
breath
quickly
,
and
answered
him
,
“
No.
”
They
came
to
a
little
wood
,
leafless
and
black
in
the
gloomy
night
;
a
dead
crow
swung
in
their
faces
on
a
swaying
pear‐tree
;
the
roar
of
the
mill‐stream
loudly
filled
what
otherwise
would
have
been
an
intense
silence
.
He
made
his
way
in
by
a
little
wicket
,
through
an
orchard
and
through
a
garden
,
and
so
to
the
front
of
the
mill‐house
.
The
shutters
were
not
closed
;
through
the
driving
of
the
snow
he
could
see
within
.
It
looked
to
him
—
a
houseless
wanderer
from
his
youth
up
—
strangely
warm
and
safe
and
still
.
An
old
man
sat
on
one
side
of
the
wide
heart
;
an
old
woman
,
who
span
,
on
the
other
;
the
spinning‐wheel
turned
,
the
thread
flew
,
the
logs
smoked
and
flamed
,
the
red
glow
played
on
the
blue
and
white
tiles
of
the
chimney‐place
,
and
dance
on
the
pewter
and
brass
on
the
shelves
;
from
the
rafters
there
hung
smoked
meats
and
dried
herbs
and
strings
of
onions
;
there
was
a
crucifix
,
and
below
it
a
little
Nativity
,
in
wax
and
carved
wood
.
He
could
not
tell
that
the
goodly
stores
were
only
gathered
there
to
be
sold
later
at
famine
prices
to
a
starving
peasantry
;
he
could
not
tell
that
the
wooden
god
was
only
worshipped
in
a
blind
,
bigoted
,
brutal
selfishness
,
that
desired
to
save
its
own
soul
,
and
to
leave
all
other
souls
to
eternal
damnation
.
He
could
not
tell
;
he
only
saw
old
age
and
warmth
,
and
comfort
;
and
what
the
people
who
hooted
him
as
a
heathen
called
the
religion
of
Love
.
“
They
will
surely
be
good
to
her
?
”
he
thought
.
“
Old
people
,
and
prosperous
,
and
alone
by
their
fireside
.
”
It
seemed
that
they
must
be
so
.
Any
way
,
there
was
no
other
means
to
save
her
from
Taric
.
His
hear
was
sore
within
him
,
for
he
had
grown
to
love
the
child
;
and
to
the
vagrant
instincts
of
his
race
the
life
of
the
house
and
of
the
hearth
seemed
like
the
life
of
the
cage
for
the
bird
.
Yet
Phratos
,
who
was
not
altogether
as
his
own
people
were
,
but
had
thought
much
and
often
in
his
own
wild
way
,
knew
that
such
a
life
was
the
best
for
a
woman
child
,
—
and
,
above
all
,
for
a
woman
child
who
had
such
a
sire
as
Taric
.
To
keep
her
with
himself
was
impossible
.
He
had
always
dwelt
with
his
tribe
,
having
no
life
apart
from
theirs
;
and
even
if
he
had
left
them
,
wherever
he
had
wandered
,
there
would
Taric
have
followed
,
and
found
him
,
and
claimed
the
child
by
his
right
of
blood
.
There
was
no
other
way
to
secure
her
from
present
misery
and
future
shame
,
save
only
this
;
to
place
her
with
her
mother’s
people
.
She
stood
beside
him
,
still
and
silent
,
gazing
through
the
snowflakes
at
the
warmth
of
the
mill‐kitchen
within
.
He
stooped
over
her
,
and
pushed
between
her
fur
garment
and
her
skin
the
letter
he
had
found
on
the
breast
of
the
dead
woman
in
the
Liébana
.
“
Thou
wilt
go
in
there
the
old
man
yonder
,
and
sleep
by
that
pleasant
fire
to‐night
,
”
he
murmured
to
her
.
“
And
thou
wilt
be
good
and
gentle
,
and
even
as
thou
art
to
me
always
;
and
to‐morrow
at
noontide
I
will
come
and
see
how
it
fares
with
thee
.
”
Her
small
hands
tightened
upon
his
.
“
I
will
not
go
without
thee
,
”
she
muttered
in
the
broken
tongue
of
the
gypsy
children
.
There
were
food
and
milk
,
fire
and
shelter
,
safety
from
the
night
and
storm
there
,
she
saw
;
but
theses
were
nought
to
her
without
Phratos
.
She
struggled
against
her
fate
as
the
young
bird
struggles
against
being
thrust
into
the
cage
,
—
not
knowing
what
captivity
means
,
and
yet
afraid
of
it
and
rebelling
by
instinct
.
He
took
her
up
in
his
arms
,
and
pressed
her
close
to
him
,
and
for
the
first
time
kissed
her
.
For
Phratos
,
though
tender
to
her
,
had
no
woman’s
foolishness
,
but
had
taught
her
to
be
hardy
and
strong
,
and
to
look
for
neither
caresses
nor
compassion
—
knowing
well
that
to
the
love
child
of
Taric
in
her
future
years
the
first
could
only
mean
shame
,
and
the
last
could
only
mean
alms
,
which
would
be
shame
likewise
.
“
Go
,
dear
,
”
he
said
softly
to
her
;
and
then
he
struck
with
his
staff
on
the
wooden
door
,
and
lifting
its
latch
,
unclosed
it
;
and
thrust
the
child
forward
,
ere
she
could
resist
,
into
the
darkness
of
the
low
entrance
place
.
Then
he
turned
and
went
swiftly
himself
through
the
orchard
and
wood
into
the
gloom
and
the
storm
of
the
night
.
He
knew
that
to
show
himself
to
a
northern
householder
were
to
do
her
evil
and
hurt
;
for
between
the
wanderer
of
the
Spanish
forests
and
the
peasant
of
the
Norman
pastures
there
could
be
only
defiance
,
mistrust
,
and
disdain
.
“
I
will
see
how
it
is
with
her
to‐morrow
,
”
he
said
to
himself
as
he
faced
again
the
wind
and
the
sleet
.
“
If
it
be
well
with
her
—
let
it
be
well
.
If
not
,
she
must
come
forth
with
me
,
and
we
must
seek
some
lair
where
her
wolf‐sire
shall
not
prowl
and
discover
her
.
But
it
will
be
hard
to
f
ind
;
for
the
vengeance
of
Taric
is
swift
of
foot
and
has
a
far‐stretching
hand
an
eyes
that
are
sleepless
.
And
his
heart
was
heavy
in
him
as
he
went
.
He
had
done
what
seemed
to
him
just
and
due
to
the
child
and
her
mother
;
he
had
been
true
to
the
vow
he
had
made
answering
the
mute
prayer
of
the
sightless
dead
eyes
;
he
had
saved
the
flesh
of
the
child
from
the
whip
of
the
trainer
,
and
the
future
of
the
child
from
the
shame
of
the
brothel
;
he
had
done
thus
much
in
saving
her
from
her
father
,
and
he
had
done
it
in
the
only
way
the
was
possible
to
him
.
Yet
his
heart
was
heavy
as
he
went
;
and
it
seemed
to
him
even
as
though
he
had
thrust
some
mountain
bird
with
pinions
that
would
cleave
the
clouds
,
and
eyes
that
would
seek
the
sun
,
and
a
song
that
would
rise
with
the
dawn
,
and
a
courage
that
would
breast
the
thunder
,
down
into
the
darkness
of
a
trap
,
to
be
shorn
and
crippled
and
silenced
for
evermore
.
“
I
will
see
her
to‐morrow
,
”
he
told
himself
;
restless
with
a
vague
remorse
,
as
though
the
good
he
had
done
had
been
evil
.
But
when
the
morrow
dawned
there
had
happened
that
to
Phratos
which
forbade
him
to
see
whether
it
were
well
with
her
that
day
or
any
day
in
all
the
many
years
that
came
.
For
Phratos
that
night
,
being
blinded
and
shrouded
in
the
storm
of
snow
,
lost
such
slender
knowledge
as
he
had
of
that
northern
country
,
and
wandered
far
afield
,
not
knowing
where
he
was
in
the
wide
white
desert
,
on
which
no
single
star‐ray
shone
.
The
violence
of
the
storm
grew
with
the
hours
.
The
land
was
a
sheet
of
snow
.
The
plains
were
dim
and
trackless
as
a
desert
.
Sheep
were
frozen
in
their
folds
,
and
cattle
drowned
amidst
the
ice
in
the
darkness
.
All
lights
were
out
,
and
the
warning
peals
of
the
bells
were
drowned
in
the
tempest
of
the
winds
.
The
land
was
strange
to
him
,
and
he
lost
all
knowledge
where
he
was
.
Above
,
beneath
,
around
,
were
the
dense
rolling
clouds
of
snow
.
Now
and
then
through
the
tumult
of
the
hurricane
there
was
blown
a
strange
harsh
burst
of
jangled
chimes
that
wailed
a
moment
loudly
on
the
silence
and
then
died
again
.
At
many
doors
he
knocked
:
the
doors
of
little
lonely
places
standing
in
the
great
colourless
waste
.
But
each
door
,
being
opened
cautiously
,
was
with
haste
shut
in
his
face
again
.
“
It
is
a
gypsy
,
”
the
people
muttered
,
and
were
afraid
;
and
they
drew
their
bars
closer
and
huddled
together
in
their
beds
,
and
thanked
their
saints
that
they
were
safe
beneath
a
roof
.
He
wrapped
his
sheepskin
closer
round
him
and
set
his
face
against
the
blast
.
A
hundred
times
he
strove
to
set
his
steps
backwards
to
the
town
,
and
a
hundred
times
he
failed
;
and
moved
round
and
round
vainly
,
never
escaping
the
maze
of
the
endless
white
fields
.
Now
the
night
was
long
,
and
he
was
weakly
.
In
the
midst
of
the
fields
there
was
a
cross
,
and
at
the
head
of
the
cross
hung
a
lantern
.
The
wind
tossed
the
light
to
and
fro
.
It
flickered
on
the
head
of
a
woman
.
She
lay
in
the
snow
,
and
her
hand
grasped
his
foot
as
he
passed
her
.
“
I
am
dead
,
”
she
said
to
him
:
“
dead
of
hunger
.
But
the
lad
lives
—
save
him
.
”
And
as
she
spoke
,
her
lips
closed
together
and
her
throat
rattled
,
and
she
died
.
The
boy
slept
at
her
feet
,
and
babbled
in
his
sleep
,
delirious
.
Phratos
stooped
down
and
raised
him
.
He
was
a
child
of
eight
years
,
and
worn
with
famine
and
fever
,
and
his
gaunt
eyes
stared
hideously
up
at
the
driving
snow
.
Phratos
folded
him
in
his
arms
,
and
went
on
with
him
:
the
snow
had
nearly
covered
the
body
of
his
mother
.
All
around
him
were
the
fields
.
There
was
no
light
,
except
from
the
lantern
on
the
cross
.
A
few
sheep
huddled
near
without
a
shepherd
.
The
stillness
was
intense
.
The
bells
had
ceased
to
ring
,
or
he
had
wandered
far
from
the
sound
of
them
.
The
lad
was
senseless
;
he
muttered
drearily
foolish
words
of
fever
;
his
limbs
hung
in
a
dead
weight
;
his
teeth
chattered
.
Phratos
,
bearing
him
,
struggled
on
:
the
snow
was
deep
and
drifted
heavily
;
every
now
and
then
he
stumbled
and
plunged
to
his
knees
in
a
rift
of
earth
or
in
a
shallow
pool
of
ice
.
At
last
his
strength
,
feeble
at
all
times
,
failed
him
;
his
arms
could
bear
their
burden
no
longer
;
he
let
the
young
boy
slip
from
his
hold
upon
the
ground
;
and
stood
,
breathless
and
broken
,
with
the
snowflakes
beating
on
him
.
“
The
woman
trusted
me
,
”
he
thought
;
she
was
a
stranger
,
she
was
a
beggar
,
she
was
dead
.
She
had
no
bond
upon
him
,
neither
could
she
ever
bear
witness
against
him
.
Yet
he
was
loyal
to
her
.
He
unwound
the
sheepskin
that
he
wore
,
and
stripped
himself
of
it
,
and
folded
it
about
the
sick
child
,
and
with
a
slow
laborious
effort
drew
the
little
body
under
the
frail
shelter
of
a
knot
of
furze
,
and
wrapped
it
closely
round
,
and
left
it
there
.
It
was
all
that
he
could
do
.
Then
,
with
no
defence
between
him
and
the
driving
cold
,
he
strove
once
more
to
find
his
road
.
It
was
quite
dark
;
quite
still
.
The
snow
fell
ceaselessly
;
the
white
wide
land
was
pathless
as
the
sea
.
He
stumbled
on
as
a
mule
may
that
being
blind
and
bruised
yet
holds
its
way
from
the
sheer
instinct
of
its
sad
dumb
patience
.
His
veins
were
frozen
;
his
beard
was
ice
;
the
wind
cut
his
flesh
like
a
scourge
;
a
sickly
dreamy
sleepiness
stole
on
him
.
He
knew
well
what
it
meant
.
He
tried
to
rouse
himself
;
he
was
young
,
and
his
life
had
its
sweetness
;
and
there
were
faces
he
would
fain
have
seen
again
,
and
voices
whose
laughter
he
would
fain
have
heard
.
He
drew
the
viol
round
and
touched
its
strings
;
but
his
frozen
fingers
had
lost
their
cunning
,
and
the
soul
of
the
music
was
chilled
and
dumb
:
it
only
sighed
in
answer
.
He
kissed
it
softly
as
he
would
have
kissed
a
woman’s
lips
,
and
put
it
in
his
bosom
.
It
had
all
his
youth
in
it
.
Then
he
stumbled
onward
yet
again
,
feebly
,
being
a
cripple
and
cold
to
the
bone
,
and
pierced
with
a
million
thorns
of
pain
.
There
was
no
light
anywhere
.
The
endless
wilderness
of
the
ploughed
lands
stretched
all
around
him
;
where
the
little
hamlets
clustered
the
storm
hid
them
;
no
light
could
penetrate
the
denseness
of
that
changeless
gloom
;
and
the
only
sound
that
rose
upon
the
ghastly
silence
was
the
moaning
of
some
perishing
flock
locked
in
a
flood
of
ice
,
and
deserted
by
its
shepherd
.
But
what
he
saw
and
what
he
heard
were
not
these
;
going
barefoot
and
blindfold
to
his
death
,
the
things
of
his
own
land
were
with
him
;
the
golden
glories
of
sunsets
of
paradise
;
the
scarlet
blaze
of
a
wilderness
of
flowers
;
the
sound
of
the
fountains
at
midnight
;
the
glancing
of
the
swift
feet
in
the
dances
;
the
sweetness
of
songs
sad
as
death
sung
in
the
desolate
courts
of
the
old
palaces
;
the
deep
dreamy
hush
of
white
moons
shining
through
lines
of
palms
straight
on
a
silvery
sea
.
These
arose
and
drifted
before
him
,
and
he
ceased
to
suffer
or
to
know
,
and
sleep
conquered
him
;
and
he
dropped
down
on
the
earth
noiselessly
and
powerlessly
as
a
leaf
sins
;
and
the
snow
fell
and
covered
him
.
When
the
morning
broke
a
peasant
,
going
to
his
labour
in
the
fields
while
the
stormy
winter
sun
rose
red
over
the
whitened
world
,
found
both
his
body
and
the
child’s
.
The
boy
was
warm
and
living
,
still
beneath
the
shelter
of
the
sheepskin
:
Phratos
was
dead
.
The
people
succoured
the
child
,
and
nursed
and
fed
him
so
that
his
life
was
saved
;
but
to
Phratos
they
only
gave
such
burial
as
the
corby
gives
the
stricken
deer
.
“
It
is
only
a
gypsy
;
let
him
lie
,
”
they
said
;
and
they
left
him
there
,
and
the
snow
kept
him
.
His
viol
they
robbed
him
of
,
and
cast
it
as
a
plaything
to
their
children
.
But
the
children
could
make
no
melody
from
its
dumb
strings
.
For
the
viol
was
faithful
;
and
its
music
was
dead
too
.
And
his
own
land
and
his
own
people
knew
him
never
again
;
and
never
again
at
evening
was
the
voice
of
his
viol
heard
in
the
stillness
;
and
never
again
did
the
young
men
and
the
maidens
dance
to
his
bidding
,
and
the
tears
and
the
laughter
rise
and
fall
at
his
will
,
and
the
beasts
and
the
birds
frisk
and
sing
at
his
coming
,
and
the
children
in
his
footsteps
cry
:
—
“
Lo
,
it
is
summer
,
since
Phratos
is
here
!
”
BOOK
II
.
“
Yo
contra
todos
,
y
todos
contra
yo
.
”
CHAPTER
I
.
THE
hottest
sun
of
a
hot
summer
shone
on
a
straight
dusty
road
.
An
old
man
was
breaking
stones
by
the
wayside
;
he
was
very
old
,
very
bent
,
very
lean
,
worn
by
ninety
years
if
he
had
been
worn
by
one
;
but
he
struck
yet
with
a
will
,
and
the
flints
flew
in
a
thousand
pieces
under
his
hammer
,
as
though
the
youth
and
the
force
of
nineteen
years
instead
of
ninety
were
at
work
on
them
.
When
the
noon
bell
rang
from
a
little
odd
straight
steeple
,
with
a
slanting
roof
,
that
peered
out
of
the
trees
to
the
westward
,
he
laid
his
hammer
aside
,
threw
off
his
brass‐plated
cap
,
wiped
his
forehead
of
its
heat
and
dust
,
sat
down
on
his
pile
of
stones
,
and
took
out
hard
black
crust
and
munched
it
with
teeth
that
were
still
strong
and
white
.
The
noontide
was
very
quiet
;
the
heat
was
intense
,
for
there
had
been
no
rainfall
for
several
weeks
;
there
was
one
lark
singing
high
up
in
the
air
,
with
its
little
breast
lifted
to
the
sun
;
but
all
the
other
birds
were
mute
and
invisible
,
doubtless
hidden
in
some
delicious
shadow
,
swinging
drowsily
on
tufts
of
linden
bloom
,
or
underneath
the
roofing
of
broad
chestnut
leaves
.
The
road
on
either
side
was
lined
by
the
straight
forms
of
endless
poplars
,
standing
side
by
side
as
sentinels
.
The
fields
were
all
ablaze
on
every
acre
with
the
gold
of
ripening
corn
or
mustard
,
and
the
scarlet
flame
of
innumerable
poppies
.
Here
and
there
they
were
broken
by
some
little
house
,
white
or
black
,
or
painted
in
bright
colours
,
which
lifted
up
amongst
its
leaves
a
little
tower
like
a
sugar‐loaf
or
a
carved
gable
,
and
a
pointed
arch
beneath
it
.
Now
and
then
they
were
divided
by
rows
of
trees
standing
breathless
in
the
heat
,
or
breadths
of
apple
orchards
,
some
with
early
fruits
already
ripe
,
some
with
fruits
as
yet
green
as
their
foliage
.
Through
it
all
the
river
ran
,
silver
in
the
light
;
with
shallow
fords
,
where
the
deep‐flanked
bullocks
drank
;
and
ever
and
anon
an
ancient
picturesque
bridge
of
wood
,
time‐bronzed
and
moss‐embroidered
.
The
old
man
did
not
look
round
once
;
he
had
been
on
these
roads
a
score
of
years
;
the
place
had
to
him
the
monotony
and
colourlessness
which
all
long
familiar
scenes
wear
to
the
eyes
that
are
weary
of
them
.
He
was
ninety‐five
;
he
had
to
labour
for
his
living
;
he
ate
black
bread
;
he
had
no
living
kith
or
kin
;
no
friend
save
in
the
mighty
legion
of
the
dead
;
and
he
sat
in
the
scorch
of
the
sun
;
he
hated
the
earth
and
the
sky
,
the
air
and
the
landscape
:
why
not
?
They
had
no
loveliness
for
him
;
he
only
knew
that
the
flies
stung
him
and
that
the
red
ants
could
crawl
through
the
holes
in
his
shoes
,
and
bite
him
sharply
with
their
little
piercing
teeth
.
He
sat
in
such
shade
as
the
tall
lean
poplar
gave
,
munching
his
hard
crusts
;
he
had
a
fine
keen
profile
and
a
long
white
beard
that
were
thrown
out
as
sharply
as
a
sculpture
against
the
golden
sunlight
,
in
which
the
gnats
were
dancing
.
His
eyes
were
fastened
on
the
dust
as
he
ate
;
blue
piercing
eyes
that
had
still
something
of
the
fire
of
their
youth
;
and
his
lips
under
the
white
hair
moved
a
little
now
and
then
,
half
audibly
.
His
thoughts
were
with
the
long
dead
years
of
an
unforgotten
time
—
a
time
that
will
be
remembered
as
long
as
the
earth
shall
circle
round
the
sun
.
With
the
present
he
had
nothing
to
do
;
he
worked
to
satisfy
the
lingering
cravings
of
a
body
that
age
seemed
to
have
lost
all
power
to
kill
;
he
worked
because
he
was
too
much
of
a
man
still
to
beg
,
and
because
suicide
looked
to
his
fancy
like
a
weakness
,
but
life
for
all
that
was
over
with
him
;
life
in
the
years
of
his
boyhood
had
been
a
thing
so
splendid
,
so
terrible
,
so
drunken
,
so
divine
,
so
tragic
,
so
intense
,
that
the
world
seemed
now
to
him
to
have
grown
pale
and
grey
and
pulseless
,
with
no
sap
in
its
veins
,
no
hue
in
its
suns
,
no
blood
in
its
humanity
.
For
his
memory
held
the
days
of
Thermidor
;
the
weeks
of
the
White
Terror
;
the
winter
dawn
,
when
the
drums
rolled
out
a
King’s
threnody
;
the
summer
nights
,
when
all
the
throats
of
Paris
cried
“
Marengo
!
”
He
had
lived
in
the
wondrous
awe
of
that
abundant
time
when
every
hour
was
an
agony
or
a
victory
;
when
every
woman
was
a
martyr
or
a
bacchanal
;
when
the
same
scythe
that
had
severed
the
flowering
grasses
served
also
to
cleave
the
fair
breasts
of
the
mother
,
the
tender
throat
of
the
child
;
when
the
ground
was
purple
with
the
blue
blood
of
men
as
with
the
juices
of
out‐trodden
grapes
,
and
when
the
waters
were
white
with
the
bodies
of
virgins
as
with
the
moon‐fed
lilies
of
summer
.
And
how
he
sat
here
by
the
wayside
,
in
the
dust
and
the
sun
,
only
feeling
the
sting
of
the
fly
and
the
bite
of
the
ant
;
and
the
world
seemed
dead
to
him
,
because
so
long
ago
,
though
his
body
still
lived
on
,
his
soul
and
had
cursed
God
and
died
.
Through
the
golden
notes
of
the
dancing
air
and
of
the
quivering
sunbeams
,
whilst
high
above
the
lark
sang
on
,
there
came
along
the
road
a
girl
.
She
was
bare‐footed
and
bare‐throated
,
lithe
of
movement
,
and
straight
and
supple
,
as
one
who
passed
her
life
on
the
open
lands
and
was
abroad
in
all
changes
of
the
weather
.
She
walked
with
the
free
and
fearless
measure
of
the
country
women
of
Rome
or
the
desert‐born
women
of
Nubia
;
she
had
barely
entered
his
sixteenth
year
;
but
her
bosom
and
limbs
were
full
and
firm
,
and
moulded
with
almost
the
luxuriant
splendor
of
maturity
;
her
head
was
not
covered
after
the
fashion
of
the
country
,
but
had
a
scarlet
kerchief
wound
about
,
and
on
it
she
bore
a
great
flat
basket
,
filled
high
with
fruits
and
herbs
and
flowers
;
a
mass
of
colour
and
of
blossom
,
through
whose
leaves
and
tendrils
her
dark
level
brows
and
her
great
eyes
,
blue
black
as
a
tempestuous
night
,
looked
out
,
set
straight
against
the
sun
.
She
came
on
,
treading
down
the
dust
with
her
long
and
slender
feet
,
that
were
such
feet
as
a
sculptor
would
give
his
Cleopatra
or
his
Phryne
.
Her
face
was
grave
,
shadowed
,
even
fierce
;
and
her
mouth
,
though
scarlet
as
a
berry
and
full
and
curled
,
had
its
lips
pressed
close
to
one
another
,
like
the
lips
of
one
who
has
long
kept
silence
,
and
may
keep
it
—
until
death
.
As
she
saw
the
old
man
her
eyes
changed
and
lightened
with
a
smile
which
for
the
moment
banished
all
the
gloom
and
savage
patience
from
her
eyes
,
and
made
them
mellow
and
lustrous
as
a
southern
sun
.
She
paused
before
him
,
and
spoke
,
showing
her
beautiful
white
teeth
,
small
and
even
,
like
rows
of
cowrie
shells
.
“
You
are
well
,
Marcellin
?
”
The
old
man
started
,
and
looked
up
with
a
certain
gladness
on
his
own
keen
visage
,
which
had
lost
all
expression
save
such
as
an
intense
and
absorbed
retrospection
will
lend
.
“
Fool
!
”
he
made
answer
,
harshly
yet
not
unkindly
.
“
When
will
you
know
that
so
long
as
an
old
man
lives
so
long
it
cannot
be
‘well’
with
him
?
”
“
Need
one
be
a
man
,
or
old
,
to
answer
so
?
”
She
spoke
in
the
accent
and
the
language
of
the
province
,
but
with
a
voice
rich
and
pure
and
cold
;
not
the
voice
of
the
north
,
or
of
any
peasantry
.
She
put
her
basket
down
from
off
her
head
,
and
leaned
against
the
trunk
of
the
poplar
beside
him
,
crossing
her
arms
upon
her
bare
chest
.
“
To
the
young
everything
is
possible
;
to
the
old
nothing
,
”
he
said
curtly
.
Her
eyes
gleamed
with
a
fierce
thirsty
longing
;
she
made
him
no
reply
.
He
broke
off
half
his
dry
bread
and
tendered
it
to
her
.
She
shook
her
head
and
motioned
it
away
;
yet
she
was
as
hungered
as
any
hawk
that
has
hunted
all
through
the
night
and
the
woods
,
and
has
killed
nothing
.
The
growing
life
,
the
superb
strength
,
the
lofty
stature
of
her
made
her
need
constant
nourishment
,
as
young
trees
need
it
;
and
she
was
fed
as
scantily
as
a
blind
beggar’s
dog
,
and
less
willingly
than
a
galley
slave
.
The
kindly
air
had
fed
her
richly
,
strongly
,
continually
;
that
was
all
.
“
Possible
!
”
she
said
slowly
,
after
awhile
.
“
What
is
possible
?
I
do
not
understand
.
”
The
old
man
,
Marcellin
,
smiled
grimly
.
“
You
see
that
lark
?
It
soars
there
,
and
sings
there
.
It
is
possible
that
a
fowler
may
hide
in
the
grasses
;
it
is
possible
that
it
may
be
shot
as
it
sings
;
it
is
possible
that
it
may
have
the
honour
to
die
in
agony
to
grace
a
rich
man’s
table
.
You
see
?
”
She
mused
a
moment
;
her
brain
was
rapid
in
intuitive
perception
,
but
barren
of
all
culture
;
it
took
her
many
moments
to
follow
the
filmy
track
of
a
metaphorical
utterance
.
But
by
degrees
she
saw
his
meaning
,
and
the
shadow
settled
over
her
face
again
.
“
The
possible
,
then
,
is
only
—
the
worse
?
”
she
said
slowly
.
The
old
man
smiled
still
grimly
.
“
Nay
;
our
friends
the
priests
say
there
is
a
‘possible’
which
will
give
—
one
day
—
the
fowler
who
kills
the
lark
the
wings
of
the
lark
,
and
the
lark’s
power
to
sing
Laus
Deo
in
heaven
.
I
do
not
say
—
they
do
.
”
“
The
priests
!
”
All
the
scorn
of
which
her
curved
lips
were
capable
curled
on
them
,
and
a
deep
hate
gathered
in
her
eyes
—
a
hate
that
was
unfathomable
and
mute
.
“
Then
there
is
no
‘possible’
for
me
,
”
she
said
bitterly
,
“
if
so
be
that
priests
hold
the
gifts
of
it
?
”
Marcellin
looked
up
at
her
from
under
his
bushy
white
eyebrows
;
a
glance
fleet
and
keen
as
the
gleam
of
blue
steel
.
“
Yes
,
there
is
,
”
he
said
curtly
.
“
You
are
a
woman
child
,
and
have
beauty
:
the
devil
will
give
you
one
.
”
“
Always
the
devil
!
”
she
muttered
.
There
was
impatience
in
her
echo
of
the
words
,
and
yet
there
was
an
awe
also
as
of
one
