Eric had never lost his radiant smile; and all whom he met felt better and richer because they had looked upon the light that shone in his eyes.
Never had he seen roads so straight and so shadeless; they seemed to lead in an uncurving line from one end of the earth to the other; and those that walked upon them were never in a hurry.
Strings of carts laden with freshly cut corn and hay moved slowly along, the heads of the patient oxen bent low to the ground, straining under the weight they dragged.
High above the swinging loads long-haired youths stretched in lazy content, piped dreamy tunes upon their wooden flutes, their eyes hidden beneath broad-brimmed hats. All were dressed in the same white shirts Radu had worn.
There were also old men walking beside the vehicles, bearing heavy scythes on their shoulders.
Their faces were browned, the colour of sun-baked earth; and from under the shade of their hats silvery locks hung down covering the napes of their wrinkled necks.
One friendly peasant had bidden Eric take a rest on the top of his hay, and our wanderer had gladly accepted, swinging himself up on the swaying mass.
There he reposed among the fragrant green, half buried beneath the flowers of yesterday.
The faithful hawk flew down from the blue and perched close to his feet. Eric closed his eyes, hugging his sword to his breast; and as he did so the vision of his dream stood before him with startling vividness.
Never had he seen the face so distinctly; never had the eyes looked into his from so near. He sat up, almost expecting to find some unknown being at his side; but no—he was shut in all about by the withered grass that smelt so sweet and was so deliciously soft to his limbs.