From that
rampart of the town, the Spaniard's Road, two plains lay exposed to left
and right; the scent of may-tree blossom had stolen up the hill; the
rising moon clung to a fir-tree bough. Over the country the far stars
presided, and sleep's dark wings were spread above the fields--silent,
scarce breathing, lay the body of the land. But to the south, where the
town, that restless head, was lying, the stars seemed to have fallen and
were sown in the thousand furrows of its great grey marsh, and from the
dark miasma of those streets there travelled up a rustle, a whisper, the
far allurement of some deathless dancer, dragging men to watch the swirl
of her black, spangled drapery, the gleam of her writhing limbs. Like
the song of the sea in a shell was the murmur of that witch of motion,
clasping to her the souls of men, drawing them down into a soul whom
none had ever known to rest.
Above the two young cousins, scudding along that ridge between the
country and the town, three thin white clouds trailed slowly towards the
west-like tired seabirds drifting exhausted far out from land on a sea
blue to blackness with unfathomable depth.
For an hour those two rode silently into the country.
"Have we come far enough?" Martin said at last.
Thyme shook her head. A long, steep hill beyond a little sleeping
village had brought them to a standstill.
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