As he spoke, he again pressed his hands against his forehead. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“You look a bit overwrought, Draco. Are you feeling all right?”
“Well, it’s my eyes. The sun has got into them. My head aches a bit—but it’s nothing.”
They made their way down the hot, broken rocks until they saw Doiran, white and gleaming, at their feet. Beyond was the wonderful blue lake, and beyond the lake rose the Belashitza Mountains cutting the sky with their fanged crests.
“How wonderful it is!” exclaimed Sylvester.
Draco gazed on the scene with his swollen pupils.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I never, never get tired of it. I was born down there.”
It was now midday and the sun was at its hottest. The atmosphere danced before them liquidly. No birds sang, for it was Pan’s hour. The sun had smitten that world to silence.
Five hours later they were again climbing the mountains. Draco’s head was one intolerable ache, but he made no complaint. He had been like this before; it would soon pass.
But when they had nearly reached their destination, he was compelled to stop and lie down in the shade of a rock.