, the dry
watercourses almost bitter in their barrenness. Already the devastation
of the summer was beginning to be apparent. All tenderness had gone from
the higher slopes of the mountains which, jocund in spring and in autumn
with growing crops, were now bare and brown, and seamed like the hide of
a tropical reptile gleaming with metallic hues. The lower slopes were
still panoplied with the green of vines and of trees, but the ground
beneath the trees was arid. The sun was coming into his dominion with
pride and cruelty, like a conqueror who loots the land he takes to be his
own.

But Maurice did not mind the change, which drove the tourists northward,
and left Sicily to its own people. He even rejoiced in it. As each day
the heat increased he was conscious of an increasing exultation, such as
surely the snakes and the lizards feel as they come out of their
hiding-places into the golden light. He was filled with a glorious sense
of expansion, as if his capabilities grew larger, as if they were
developed by heat like certain plants. None of the miseries that afflict
many people in the violent summers which govern southern lands were his.
His skin did not peel, his eyes did not become inflamed, nor did his head
ache under the action of the burning rays. They came to him like brothers
and he rejoiced in their company. To-day, as he descended to Marechiaro,
he revelled in the sun. Its ruthlessness made him feel ruthless. He was
conscious of that. At this moment he was in absolutely perfect physical
health. His body was lithe and supple, yet his legs and arms were hard
with springing muscle. His warm blood sang through his veins like music
through the pipes of an organ. His eyes shone with the superb animation
of youth that is radiantly sound. For, despite his anxiety, his sometimes
almost fretful irritation when he thought about the coming of Artois and
the passing of his own freedom, there were moments when he felt as if he
could leap with the sheer joy of life, as if he could lift up his arms
and burst forth into a wild song of praise to his divinity, the sun. And
this grand condition of health made him feel ruthless, as the man who
conquers and enters a city in triumph feels ruthless. As he trod down
towards Marechiaro to-day, thinking of the letter that perhaps awaited
him, it seemed to him that it would be monstrous if anything, if any one,
were to interfere with his day of joy, the day he was looking forward to
with