Siristrou paused, stretched his fingers and looked up. The light was almost gone. He got up, pushing back the bench on which he was sitting, walked across to the window and stood looking out toward the west. The governor's dwelling stood almost on the edge of the town, and between it and the open country beyond lay nothing except a narrow lane and a stockade that apparently did duty for a town wall. The yellow afterglow showed a land of forest and marsh stretching away into the darkening distance. Here and there in the foreground were small patches of ploughed land, a few irrigation channels, wide tracts of reeds and random strips of water shining with a yellow paler than the sky. It was turning cold. Inland, the wind must be rising again, for he could just make out the shaggy woods moving in the far-off, dreary solitude. Night was falling, bleak and shelterless, and in all the prospect he could see neither light nor smoke. He shivered and was about to turn back into the room when his ear caught the slap-slapping of feet approaching along the lane. In idle curiosity he waited, and after a few moments an old woman appeared, black-clad, with a bundle of sticks tied on her back. Her bare feet slapped the earth as she jogged homeward, the bundle tossing up and down on her shoulders. In her arms she was carrying a little, fair-haired girl, and Siristrou could hear her murmuring to the child in a quiet, unhurried rhythm, meaningless and reassuring as the sound of a mill wheel or the song of a bird. As they passed under the window the little girl looked up, caught sight of him and waved her hand. He waved back, and as he did so realized that someone was standing behind him in the room. A little embarrassed, he turned and saw the girl Zilthe, who came up to him and spoke a few words he could not understand. Seeing him at a loss, she smiled, held up the tray of unlighted lamps she was carrying and nodded toward the fire.
"Oh, yes, by all means light them," he replied. "You won't be disturbing me."
She took a burning twig and kindled the wicks one by one, trimming and placing several lamps until the room was bright and well lit. The rest she carried away and Siristrou, left once more alone, sat down before the fire, holding out his hands to the warmth and, just as when a boy, looking into its heart for pictures and shapes--an island, a glowing knife, a barred cage; the likeness of an old woman, a deep ravine, a shaggy bear. The fire flamed in its warmth with a gentle murmur and a wood knot popped sharply. The logs moved, the ash crumbled and fell, the pictures were gone.
Melathys came hurrying in, carrying a joint of pork on a spit, her fine robe changed for a long gray kitchen smock. As she approached he stood up and smiled.
"Can't I work too?" he asked.
"Later, perhaps--another evening, when you've become an old friend, as you surely will. You see what a splendid occasion your visit gives us for a feast. U-Siristrou, are you warm enough? Shall I put on some more logs?"
"No, please don't trouble," answered Siristrou. "That's a beautiful fire."