After a while, Zeen took up his sickle again and went on cutting down the corn. With short, even strokes, with a swing of his arm, the sickle rose and, with a “d-zin-n-n” fell at the foot of the cornstalks and brought them down in great armfuls. Then they were hooked away and dragged back in little even heaps, ready to be bound up.
It did not last long: he stopped again, looked round over all that power of corn which still had to be cut and beyond, over that swarming plain, which lay scorching, so hugely far, under that merciless sun. He saw Zalia look askant because he did not go on working and, to account for his resting, drew his whetstone from his trouser-pocket and began slowly to sharpen the sickle.
“Zalia, it’s so hot.”
“Yes, it’s that,” said Zalia.
He worked on again, but slowly, very slackly.
The sweat ran in great drops down his body; and sometimes he felt as if he would tumble head foremost into the corn. Zalia heard his breath come short and fast; she looked at him and asked what was the matter. His arms dropped feebly to his sides; and the hook and sickle fell from his hands.
“Zalia, I don’t know ... but something’s catching my breath like; and my eyes are dim....”
“It’s the heat, Zeen, it’ll wear off. Take a pull.”
She fetched the bottle of gin from the grass edge of the field, poured a sip down his throat and stood looking to see how it worked:
“Well?”