es above cast
blue-black shadows upon the golden tangle of grasses at their feet. A
soft murmur of hidden creature-things rose like an invisible haze from
earth, and nothing moved in all the horizon save the black kites high in
the blue air and the white butterflies over the drowsy meadows. The
poppies that flecked the yellow wheat fields drooped heavily, spilling
the wine of summer from their cups. Nature stood at drowsy-footed pause,
reluctant to take up again the vital whirr of living.

At the edge of the orchard, near the dusty highway, under a huge
misshapen olive tree sat a boy, still as a carven Buddha save that his
eyes stood wide, full of dreams. His was a sensitive face, thoughtful
beyond his childish years, full of weariness when from time to time he
closed his eyes, full of dark brooding when the lids lifted again.
Presently he rose to his feet, and his two hands clenched tightly into
fists.

"I hate it!" he muttered vehemently.

At his side the grasses stirred and a portion of the blue shadow of the
tree detached itself and became the shadow of a man.

"Hate?" questioned a golden, care-free voice at his side. "Thou'rt
overyoung to hate. What is it thou dost hate?"

A young man had thrown himself down in the grass at the boy's side.
Shaggy locks hung about his brown cheeks; his broad, supple chest and
shoulders were bare; his eyes were full of sleepy laughter; and his
indolent face was now beautiful, now grotesque, at the color of his
thoughts. From a leathern thong about his neck hung a reed pipe, deftly
fashioned, and a bowl of wood carved about with grape-bunches dangled
from the twisted vine which girdled his waist. In one hand he held a
honey-comb, into which he bit with sharp white teeth, and on one arm he
carried branches torn from fig and almond trees, clustered with green
figs and with nuts. The two looked long at each other, the boy gravely,
the man smiling.

"Thou wilt know me another time," said the man with a throaty laugh.
"And I shall know thee. I have been watching thee a long time--I know
not why. But what is it thou dost hate? For me, I hate nothing. Hate is
wearisome."

The boy's gaze fixed itself upon the bright, insouciant face of the man
with a fascination he endeavored to throw off but could not. Presently
he spoke, and his voice was low and clear and deliberate.

"Hate is evil," he said.

"I know not what evil may be," said the man, a puzzled frown furrowing
the smooth bro