and oats, the carters already bringing in little loads of hay. He could
hear their marche-'t'-en! to the horses. Over by a little house on the
river bank stood an old woman sharpening a sickle. He could see the
flash of the steel as the stone and metal gently clashed.

Presently a song came up to him, through the garden below, from the
house. The notes seemed to keep time to the hand of the sickle-
sharpener. He had heard it before, but only in snatches. Now it seemed
to pierce his senses and to flood his nerves with feeling.

The air was sensuous, insinuating, ardent. The words were full of summer
and of that dramatic indolence of passion which saved the incident at
Magon Farcinelle's from being as vulgar as it was treacherous. The voice
was Christine's, on her wedding day.

"Oh, hark how the wind goes, the wind goes
(And dark goes the stream by the mill!)
Oh, see where the storm blows, the storm blows
(There's a rider comes over the hill!)

"He went with the sunshine one morning
(Oh, loud was the bugle and drum!)
My soldier, he gave me no warning
(Oh, would that my lover might come!)

"My kisses, my kisses are waiting
(Oh, the rider comes over the hill!)
In summer the birds should be mating
(Oh, the harvest goes down to the mill!)