In the broader pools of summer moonlight he showed as a hale and
husky fellow of about thirty years, with dark hair and eyes and
a handsome, downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a
trace of the horizon blue was left, only a gray shadow. He had no
knapsack on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly
he plodded his way, without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping
country. The quick, firm military step was gone. He trudged like
a tramp, choosing always the darker side of the road.
He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.
Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches,
and so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with
wooded heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some
temple or shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses
near it. Farther down he could see a cluster of white houses with
the tower of a church in the centre. Other villages were dimly
visible up and down the valley on either slope. The cattle were
lowing from the barnyards.
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