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Through the confused tracery of many thousands of naked poplars, the smoke of so many houses, and the evening steam ascending from the fields, the sails of a windmill on a gentle eminence moved very conspicuously, like a donkey's ears. And hard by, like an open gash, the imperial high-road ran straight sun-ward, an artery of travel.
And less than a mile sun-ward was a long dark shape and columns of smoke rising lazily into the air. Scrambling through the fence, Alex set off on a bee-line for the train, whistling a brisk march. Five minutes later the whistler paused in the middle of a note and spun sharply about. The color left his bronzed face.
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