And then the scene changed to a June evening in his own countryside. He
was deep in the very heart of the hills beside a little loch, whose
clear waves lapped on beaches of milky sand, it was just on twilight,
and an infinite sighing of soft winds was around him, a far-away
ineffable brightness of sunset, and the good scents of dusk among thyme
and heather. He had fished all the afternoon, and his catch lay on the
bent beside him. He was to sleep the night in his plaid, and already a
fire of heather-roots behind him was prepared for supper. He had been
for a swim, and his hair was still wet on his forehead. Just across a
conical hill rose into the golden air, the highest hill in all the
countryside, but here but a little thing, for the loch was as high as
many a hill-top. Just on its face was a scaur, and there a raven--a
speck--was wheeling slowly. Among the little islands broods of mallard
were swimming, and trout in a bay were splashing with wide circles. The
whole place had seemed caught up into an ecstasy, a riot of gold and
crimson and far-off haunting shades and scents and voices. And yet it
was no wild spectacle; it was the delicate comfort of it all which had
charmed him. Life seemed one glorious holiday, the world a garden of
the gods. There was his home across the hills, with its cool chambers,
its books and pictures, its gardens and memories.
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