prison’s gray walls. During that time he had travelled, he had fought; he had slept in the rain, he had slept under the stars; the sun had poured upon him, the wind had slashed him; not once had he been under a roof. And now, for the first time, he realised that he was outside.
He realised the golden stream of sunlight slanting to him across the hills, the smell of fresh earth, of lush grass; he breathed deep and felt within his lungs the clean clear air of out of doors; he saw the sky above him.
It was blue, the sky, a fresh tender blue. And right at its highest point, overhead, was a little white cloud. He let himself fall back, and lay there, eyes up. The little white cloud receded, receded, seemed about to withdraw within a secret door, up there in the blue dome. He shut his eyes; when he reopened them, the little cloud was again in its place.
A bee buzzed by—an hour passed. A golden spider weaved a fragile net from one blade of grass to another.
