strange, black eyes. . . . In what clay would her body soon be lying? . . .
Now and then she met a solitary passer-by . . . or a wagon . . . or a coach. . . . Here and there, in the ditch, a traveller slept soundly upon his wallet. . . . Otherwise all was quiet. . . .
In the meantime the sun was slowly setting behind her and to one side. Her shadow grew and stretched out, with long head and shaking arms,—like a monster it moved on before her. Fatigue began to overcome her. Her thoughts weighed heavily upon her. Faintness made her close her eyes, but she walked on with a surer step.
The country was changing.
Lucy no longer looked about her. Her eyes were fixed upon the road, which ran on farther and farther, grey and uninteresting. Upon it were parallel wheel tracks that seemed to touch in the distance. And the trees along the road seemed to disappear in monotonous succession from behind, and the
