THE ENDING OF WAR
At length, as it seemed to Firmin, or quite soon, as it seemed to the king, the gradient of the path diminished, the way widened out, and they found themselves in a very beautiful place indeed. It was one of those upland clusters of sheds and houses that are still to be found in the mountains of North Italy, buildings that were used only in the high summer, and which it was the custom to leave locked up and deserted through all the winter and spring, and up to the middle of June. The buildings were of a soft-toned gray stone, buried in rich green grass, shadowed by chestnut trees and lit by an extraordinary blaze of yellow broom. Never had the king seen broom so glorious; he shouted at the light of it, for it seemed to give out more sunlight even than it received; he sat down impulsively on a lichenous stone, tugged out his bread and cheese, and bade Firmin thrust the beer into the shaded weeds to cool.
"The things people miss, Firmin," he said, "who go up into the air in ships!"
Firmin looked around him with an ungenial eye. "You see it at its best, sir," he said, "before the peasants come here again and make it filthy."
"It would be beautiful anyhow," said the king.
"Superficially, sir," said Firmin. "But it stands for a social order that is fast vanishing
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