A short distance in front of him a hump in the white ribbon of the
road with parapet walls narrowing in at each side indicated a bridge.
He cut off his engine and, allowing the machine to coast, brought it
to a stand at the summit. Then dismounting, he slid it back on its
bracket; stretched himself luxuriously, and looked around.

In both directions, in front of him and behind, the road stretched,
level and monotonous as far as the eye could reach, as he had seen
it stretch, with but few exceptions, during the whole of the day's
run. But whereas farther south it had led through open country,
desolate, depressing wastes of sand and sedge, here it ran through
the heart of a pine forest, in its own way as melancholy. The road
seemed isolated, cut off from the surrounding country, like to be
squeezed out of existence by the overwhelming barrier on either
flank, a screen, aromatic indeed, but dark, gloomy, and forbidding.
Nor was the prospect improved by the long, unsightly gashes which
the resin collectors had made on the trunks, suggesting, as they
did, that the trees were stricken by some disease. To Merriman the
country seemed utterly uninhabited. Indeed, since running through
Labouheyre, now two hours back, he could not recall having seen a
single living creature except those passing in motor cars, and of
these even there were but few.

He rested his arms on the masonry coping of the old bridge and drew
at his cigarette. But for the distant rumble of an approaching
vehicle, the spring evening was very still. The river curved away
gently towards the left, flowing black and sluggish between its flat
banks, on which the pines grew down to the water's edge. It was
delightful to stay quiet for a few moments, and Merriman took off