Grass grows in large patches between these sunken furrows.
The wind whistles over the flats; we walk on; a welcome breeze dries
the beads of perspiration on our cheeks, and when we halted we were able
to hear, above the sound of our beating arteries, the rustling of the
wind in the grass.
From time to time, a mill with rapidly revolving wheels would rise up
and point the way. The creaking wooden fans descended, grazed the ground
and then rose. Standing erect in the open garret-window, the miller
watched us pass.
We walked on; coming to a hedge of elm-trees which probably concealed a
village, we caught sight of a man standing in a tree, at the foot of
which was a woman with her blue apron spread out to catch the plums he
was throwing to her. I recollect a crop of dark hair falling in masses
over her shoulders, two uplifted arms, the movement of the supple neck
and the sonorous laughter that floated over the hedge to me.
The path we were following grew narrower. Presently the plain
disappeared and we found ourselves on the crest of a promontory
dominating the ocean. Looking towards Brest, it seemed to extend
indefinitely; but on the other side, it projected its sinuosities into
the land, between short hills covered with underwood.
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