les looked round over their

shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves

sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at

their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life and the

return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of

the chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the

hurried figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here

and there and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and

riding away?

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of

roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his

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day’s dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was

worth no crow’s while to peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the

birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over

him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the mender of

roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill,

knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about

in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no

other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows,

hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would hold t