He could hear their marche-'t'-en! to the horses.

Over by a little house on the river bank stood an old woman sharpening a sickle.

He could see the flash of the steel as the stone and metal gently clashed.
Presently a song came up to him, through the garden below, from the house.

The notes seemed to keep time to the hand of the sickle-sharpener.

He had heard it before, but only in snatches.