Fierce-looking creatures are these shepherds, almost as unkempt as their dogs. Solitude seems to have crept into their eyes, that look at you without sympathy, as though they had lost the habit of focusing them to the faces of men.
A sore danger to the wanderer are those savage dogs, and often will their masters look on at the attacks they make upon the unfortunate intruder, without moving a finger in his defence.
No doubt sometimes a poet's soul is to be found amongst these highland-watchers. He will then tell tales worth listening to, for Nature will have been his teacher, the voices of the wilds have entered his heart.
Less unsociable is the shepherd tending his flock in greener pastures. He is less lonely; even when not living with a companion he receives the visits of passers-by—his expression is less grim, his eyes less hard, and the tunes he plays on his flute have a softer note.
Here the great-coat is discarded, but the "cioban's" attitude is always the same: be he on bare mountain pinnacles, or on juicy pastures near clear-flowing stream, or on the burning plains of the Dobrudja where for miles around no tree is to be seen, the "cioban" stands, for hours at a time, both hands under his chin, leaning on his staff. He keeps no record of time; he stares before him, and slowly the hours pass over his head.
Once I had a curious impression. I was riding over some endless downs near the sea. Nothing could be flatter than the landscape that stretched before me; the sea was a dead calm, resembling a mirror of spangled blue; the sand was white and dazzling; waves of heat rose from the ground, scorching my face; the entire world seemed to be gasping for breath. I alone was moving upon this immensity; sky, sea, and sand belonged to me.
In spite of the suffocating temperature, my horse was galloping briskly, happy to feel the soft sand beneath his hoofs. I had the sensation of moving through the desert.
All at once the animal became restive; he snorted through dilated nostrils, I felt him tremble beneath me; sweat broke out all over his body; suddenly he stopped short, and, swerving round unexpectedly, refused to advance! Nothing was to be seen but a series of flat, curving sand-hills, with here and there a tuft of hard grass, or sprays of sea-lavender, bending beneath the overpowering heat, yet I also had an uncanny sensation, the curious feeling that something was breathing, as though the ground itself were throbbing beneath our feet. In a way I shared my horse's apprehension. What could it be?
In spite of his reluctance, I pushed him forward, keeping a firm grip on the reins, as at each moment he tried to swing round.
Then I saw something strange appear on the horizon; a mysterious line undulating across one of the mounds, something that was alive. I had the keen perception that it was breathing, that it was even gasping for breath.