a handsome, downcast face. His uniform was faded and dusty; not a
trace of the horizon blue was left, only a gray shadow. He had no
knapsack on his back, no gun on his shoulder. Wearily and doggedly
he plodded his way, without eyes for the veiled beauty of the sleeping
country. The quick, firm military step was gone. He trudged like
a tramp, choosing always the darker side of the road.

He was a figure of flight, a broken soldier.

Presently the road led him into a thick forest of oaks and beeches,
and so to the crest of a hill overlooking a long open valley with
wooded heights beyond. Below him was the pointed spire of some
temple or shrine, lying at the edge of the wood, with no houses
near it. Farther down he could see a cluster of white houses with
the tower of a church in the centre. Other villages were dimly
visible up and down the valley on either slope. The cattle were
lowing from the barnyards. The cocks crowed for the dawn. Already
the moon had sunk behind the western trees. But the valley was
still bathed in its misty, vanishing light. Over the eastern ridge
the gray glimmer of the little day was rising, faintly tinged with
rose. It was time for the broken soldier to seek his covert and
rest till night returned.

So he stepped aside from the road and found a little dell thick
with underwoods, and in it a clear spring gurgling among the ferns
and mosses. Around the opening grew wild gooseberries and golden
broom and a few tall spires of purple foxglove. He drew off his
dusty boots and socks and bathed his feet in a small pool, drying
them with fern leaves. Then he took a slice of bread and a piece of
cheese from his pocket and made his breakfast. Going to the edge