And when they had run their length, and the outlying fields were reached, there, too, was the same brooding spell as the land stretched away in the hush and haze.

The yellow grain, heavy-headed with richness, lay beaten down and rotting, for there were no reapers.

The city, it seemed, had died calmly, painlessly, drowsily, as if overcome by sleep.
From a skiff in mid-river, a young man rowing toward the dead city rested on his oars and looked over his shoulder to the temple on the hilltop.

There was something very boyish in the reverent eagerness with which his dark eyes rested upon the pile, tracing the splendid lines from its broad, gray base to its lofty spire, radiant with white and gold.

As he looked long and intently, the colour of new life flushed into a face that was pinched and drawn.