“It’s facin’ the poppet-head where she stands I’d be.”
“Your face is turned towards her.”
“Where is the sun?”
“The sun stands still above her head.”
“With the bitter over, and the avil past, come rest for her and all that lie there.”
“Eh, ‘bien,’ the game is done!”
“If we stay here we shall die also.”
“If we go we die, perhaps.”...
“Don’t spake it. We will go, and we will return when the breath of summer comes from the South.”
“It shall be so.”