'We will go just a little higher,' he said. 'I want to find this
unoccupied village they spoke of, and then we will drink that beer. It
can't be far. We will drink the beer and throw away the bottles. And
then, Firmin, I shall ask you to look at things in a more generous
light.... Because, you know, you must....'
He turned about and for some time the only sound they made was the
noise of their boots upon the loose stones of the way and the irregular
breathing of Firmin.
At length, as it seemed to Firmin, or quite soon, as it seemed to the
king, the gradient of the path diminished, the way widened out, and they
found themselves in a very beautiful place indeed. It was one of those
upland clusters of sheds and houses that are still to be found in the
mountains of North Italy, buildings that were used only in the high
summer, and which it was the custom to leave locked up and deserted
through all the winter and spring, and up to the middle of June. The
buildings were of a soft-toned gray stone, buried in rich green grass,
shadowed by chestnut trees and lit by an extraordinary blaze of yellow
broom. Never had the king seen broom so glorious; he shouted at the
light of it, for it seemed to give out more sunlight even than it
received; he sat down impulsively on a lichenous stone, tugged out his
bread and cheese, and bade Firmin thrust the beer into the shaded weeds
to cool.
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