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ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau
were opened.

Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bedchamber of
Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with
all its might. At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed,
and, with open mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-

Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village.
Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and
people came forth shiveringchilled, as yet, by the new sweet air.
Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the village
population. Some, to the fountain; some, to the fields; men and
women here, to dig and delve; men and women there, to see to the
poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out, to such pasture as
could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the Cross, a
kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers, the led cow,
trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.

The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke
gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of
the chase had been reddened as of old; then, had gleamed
trenchant in the morning sunshine; now, doors and windows were
thrown open, horses in their stables looked round over their
shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves
sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at
their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.

All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there
and everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding
away? What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of
roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his
day’s dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was
worth no crow’s while to peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the
birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over
him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no, the mender of roads
ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-
high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.

All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about in
their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no
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