Long waves of heat palpitated over the harvest-fields, and the din of the locust drove lazily through.

The far cry of the king-fisher, and idly clacking wheels of carts rolling down from Dalgrothe Mountain, accented the drowsy melody of the afternoon.
The wild mustard glowed so like a golden carpet, that the destroying hand of the anxious farmer seemed of the blundering tyranny of labour.
Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too gay for sorrow to pass that way; but a blind girl, led by a little child, made a lane through the red luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity and valour, and the remnant of an unfulfilled manhood, lay beaten to death.
Destiny, which is stronger than human love, or the soul's fidelity, had overmastered self-sacrifice and the heart of a woman.

This woman had opened her eyes upon the world again, only to find it all night, all strange; she was captive of a great darkness.
As she broke through the hedge of lilacs by the Cure's house, the crowd of awe-stricken people fell back, opening a path for her to the door.
She moved as one unconscious of the troubled life and the vibrating world about her.
The hand of the child admitted her to the chamber of death; the door closed, and she stood motionless.
The Cure made as if to rise and go towards her, but Madame Chalice, sitting sorrowful and dismayed at the foot of the couch, by a motion of her hand stopped him.
The girl paused a moment, listening.

"Your Excellency," she whispered.
It was as if a soul leaned out of the casement of life, calling into the dark and the quiet which may not be comprehended by mortal man.
"Monsieur--Valmond!" Her trembling hands were stretched out before her yearningly.

The Cure moved.