safe again.

All the olives were gathered, and the mills were going night and day,
making a great, acrid scent of olive oil in preparation, by the lake.
The little stream rattled down. A mule driver 'Hued!' to his mules on
the Strada Vecchia. High up, on the Strada Nuova, the beautiful, new,
military high-road, which winds with beautiful curves up the
mountain-side, crossing the same stream several times in clear-leaping
bridges, travelling cut out of sheer slope high above the lake, winding
beautifully and gracefully forward to the Austrian frontier, where it
ends: high up on the lovely swinging road, in the strong evening
sunshine, I saw a bullock wagon moving like a vision, though the
clanking of the wagon and the crack of the bullock whip responded close
in my ears.

Everything was clear and sun-coloured up there, clear-grey rocks
partaking of the sky, tawny grass and scrub, browny-green spires of
cypresses, and then the mist of grey-green olives fuming down to the
lake-side. There was no shadow, only clear sun-substance built up to the
sky, a bullock wagon moving slowly in the high sunlight, along the
uppermost terrace of the military road. It sat in the warm stillness of
the transcendent afternoon.

The four o'clock steamer was creeping down the lake from the Austrian
end, creeping under the cliffs. Far away, the Verona side, beyond the
Island, lay fused in dim gold. The mountain opposite was so still, that
my heart seemed to fade in its beating as if it too would be still. All
was perfectly still, pure substance. The little steamer on the floor of
the world below, the mules down the road cast no shadow. They too were
pure sun-substance travelling on the surface of the sun-made world.