Page:Magdalen by J S Machar.pdf/255

 shone like a shower of ducats. The straight-rowed acres of beets displayed their bright green hue by the side of dark patches of potatoes. The figures of men who were hastening home from their work were sharply outhned against the greyish-blue heavens.

She walked and walked. The road descended into the valley.

On the right lay Prague, shrouded in grey smoke,—like some phantom in a weird story. Hradčany threateningly towered to the sky, and against it the glow of the setting sun looked like pools of fresh blood.

Accidentally she glanced down at the grey sea. “There, in that place must be the bridge,” the thought flashed through her numbed brain.

She began to descend.

She paid no heed to anything. Her exhausted body moved onward like a machine. The noise in her head sounded more hollow at times she thought it was the rush of the water. As if in a dream she passed