light; a long deep glow was banding the horizon; it was a bit of flame
the dusk held up, like a fading torch, to show where the sun had
reigned.

In and out of this dusk the townspeople came and went. Away from the
mellow lights, streaming past the open inn doors, the shapes were only
a part of the blur; they were vague, phantasmal masses, clad in coarse
draperies. As they passed into the circle of light, the faces showed
features we had grown to know--the high cheekbones, the ruddy tones,
the deep-set, serious eyes, and firm mouths, with lips close together.
The air on this hill-top must be of excellent quality; the life up here
could scarcely be so hard as in the field villages. For the women
looked less worn, and less hideously old, and in the men's eyes
there was not so hard and miserly a glittering.

Almost all, young or old, were bearing strange burdens. Some of the men
were carrying huge floral crosses; the women were laden with every
conceivable variety of object--with candlesticks, vases, urns, linen
sheets, rugs, with chairs even.

"They are helping to dress the reposoirs, they must all be in readiness
for the morning," answered our friend, still beside us, when we asked
the cause of this astonishing spectacle.

Everywhere garlands and firs, leaves, flowers, and wreaths; people
moving rapidly; the carriers of the crosses stopping to chat for an
instant with groups working at some mysterious scaffolding--all shapes
in darkness. Everywhere, also, there was the sweet, aromatic scent of
the greens and the pines abroad in the still, clear air of the summer
night.