A few days before, the rains had ceased, and the sun had shone again.
It shone through an air that was as old-gold dust, upon a wet land along the surface of which trailed silver hazes; upon a warm, moist land which panted to its touch, exhaling sighs humid and soft and fragrant as the breath of kine. Overnight a giant painter seemed to work with broad sure brush. The landscape, yellow and smooth as if gold-lacquered at sunset, at sunrise was tinted in lavenders; the next morning it was light green; the next morning it was dark green; and in the fields, on the roads by the side of the ruts, at first a mere verdant mustiness, the grass was springing, numerous, strong and serried, as to the commanding stamp of some fantastic foot. Here and there, on some rounded hill, a ploughman showed, a poster ploughman behind four poster horses; he rolled up in his share, as though it were ribbon, long strips of emerald sward, turning up to the sun the deeper land, tinged with red, with the red of its proffered generous blood. A heaviness was in the
