MY LADY Or THE FIELD Or BLOOD
sides, and at length gathering itself together in a clear, limpid
pool in the shade of the giant oaks. And he had outlined a for
est landscape which, he felt sure, he could perfect at leisure.
Yet he was discontented, though he scarcely knew the reason
why. It may have been on account of the inanimation of nature,
but he felt depressed and discouraged.
The heavy, cool shade of the trees was not conducive to better
his disposition, and he longed for the open country and the warm
summer sun, whose brightness could penetrate the overhanging
foliage only in small irregular blotches. Suddenly, as though in
response to his wish, the grassy roadway made a quick turn and
broadened out into a spacious clearing. And Carl, upon whom
the sight had come in a flash, almost believed that he had unwit
tingly trespassed upon some recent battle-ground. Por on the
slope above him, outlined against the blue sky and contrasting
strangely with it, a newly-cut field of buckwheat stubble gleamed
blood-red in the light of the setting sun.
But the brightness of the day was yet sufficient to drive all san
guinary thoughts from his mind, and with a great sigh of content
he dropped his portfolio and threw himself down upon the dense,
lush mountain grass.
How long he lay there and dreamed he did not know. And
whether it was the level rays of the sun peeping under his hat into
his eyes or the chill of the coining night making itself felt, that
waked him, he could not say. But suddenly he found himself
sitting bolt upright, staring ahead and rubbing his eyes hard.
And he was not quite sure that the picture he saw before him was
not one of the fantasies of his sleep bewildered brain. True, be
hind him lay the blood-red field, and to his left the roadway van
ished into the forest. But there, just opposite him, with her face
turned half toward him, sat a maiden, idly leafing over the draw
ings in the. portfolio.
Her dress, white and flowing, was of a fashion he had never
known or seen. It was not ancient; it was not modern; he could
find nothing to which it could be. compared. Yet he saw that its
snowy folds became her well, and with all the soul of the artist
he drank in every line of the beautiful figure.
The profile of her face was so classic, so perfect, that Carl
knew his fame would be made could he by some means transfer