Prince Constantine's gaunt form struck a sharp note of discord as he
walked straight up to the tumulus. His presence breathed conflict and
stress that accorded ill with the universal peace of nature.
He greeted his brother, and began to smoke; the light from his
cigarette illumined his eagle nose and bony brow; his quiet grey eyes
gleamed with a wintry look.
"One longs to fly away like a bird in the spring," he murmured; then
added with a sharp change of tone; "How did Natalya die?"
"In her right mind, thank God! But, she had lived torn by a madness
of hatred and contempt, loathing all, despising all."
"What wonder, look around you!" cried Constantine. He hesitated a
moment then said softly: "To-morrow is the Annunciation--the
recollection of that festival made me think. Look around!"
The tumulus stood out sheer and stark, a grim relic of a bygone age.
There was a faint rustling through last year's wormwood. The air
arose from the plains in a crescendo of quivering chords, gushing
upward like a welling spring. There was the scent of decaying
foliage. The sky beyond had darkened, charged to the brim with
mystery. The atmosphere became moist and cold; the valley lay
beneath--empty, boundless, a region of illimitable space.
"Do you hear?" Constantine asked.
"Hear what?"
"The earth's groans."
"Yes, it is waking.
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