I-IV

The dank, green smell hung in their nostrils
after they had left the ravine for a fertile
tableland. They trotted through a village
strung along the road, a village of deeply-scrolled
eaves under the thick foliage of maples, of an incredible
number of churches -- "Reformed," "Established,"
qualified Methodist, uncompromising Baptist.
They were all built of wood, and in varying
states of repair that bore mute witness to the persuasive
eloquence of their several pastors.

Beyond, the way rose once more, sunny and dusty
and monotonous. The priest was absorbed, muttering
unintelligibly over a small, flexible volume.
The conversation between Lettice Hollidew and
Buckley fell into increasing periods of silence. The
stranger lit a fresh cigar, the smoke from which
hung out back in such clouds that the power of the
stage might well have been mistaken for steam.

The road grew steeper still, and, fastening the
reins about the whipstock, Gordon swung out over
the wheel and walked. He was a spare man,
sinewy and upright, and past the golden age of

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v?