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Updated: May 9, 2025
The blight of contention and strife seemed to be its heritage, the seed of violence and destruction to be sown in the drouth-cursed soil. The judgment of men warped in that ceaseless wind, untempered by green of bough overhead or refreshing turf under foot. There was no justice in their hearts, and no mercy.
There was peace in the night around them, for all the turmoil there might be in human hearts, for night had eased the throbbing, drouth-cursed earth of its burning, and called the trumpeters of the greenery out along the riverside. "I'm afraid he'll come," said Rhetta by and by. "Why should he come?" asked Violet, stroking back the other's hair.
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