As he looked harbourwards,
the radiance of sky mingling with the glitter of water dazzled and
bewildered his sight: below, and at the foot of the steep woods
opposite, the river lay cool and shadowy, or vanished for a space
beneath a cliff, where the red plough-land broke abruptly away with
no more warning than a crazy hurdle. Distinct above the dreamy hum
of the little town, the ear caught the rattle of anchor-chains, the
cries of an outward-bound crew at the windlass, the clanking of
trucks beside the jetties; the creaking of oars in the thole-pins of
a tiny boat below ascended musically; the very air was quick with all
sounds and suggestions of spring, and of man going forth to his
labour; the youthfulness of the morning ran in Mr. Fogo's veins, and
lent a buoyancy to his step.
By this time the town was lost to view; next, the bend of Kit's House
vanished, and now the broad flood spread in a silver lake full ahead.
On the ridge the pure air was simply intoxicating after the languor
of the valley. Mr. Fogo began to skip, to snap his fingers, to tilt
at the gossamer with his umbrella, and once even halted to laugh
hilariously at nothing. An old horse grazing on an isolated patch of
turf looked up in mild surprise; Mr. Fogo blushed behind his
spectacles and hurried on.
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