Спрут: Калифорнийская история

           Acrossthatwhiteforeheadwasnosmudge,notraceofanearthlypollution—nomarkofaterrestrialdishonour.Hesawinherthesamebeautyofuntaintedinnocencehehadknowninhisyouth.Yearshadmadenodifferencewithher.Shewasstillyoung.Itwastheoldpuritythatreturned,thedeathlessbeauty,theever-renascentlife,theeternalconsecratedandimmortalyouth.Forafewseconds,shestoodtherebeforehim,andhe,uponthegroundatherfeet,lookedupather,spellbound.Then,slowlyshewithdrew.Stillasleep,hereyelidsclosed,sheturnedfromhim,descendingtheslope.Shewasgone.

           Vanameestartedup,coming,asitwere,tohimself,lookingwildlyabouthim.Sarriawasthere.

           “Isawher,”saidthepriest.“ItwasAngele,thelittlegirl,yourAngele’sdaughter.Sheislikehermother.”

           ButVanameescarcelyheard.Hewalkedasifinatrance,pushingbySarria,goingforthfromthegarden.AngeleorAngele’sdaughter,itwasallonewithhim.ItwasShe.Deathwasovercome.Thegravevanquished.Life,ever-renewed,aloneexisted.Timewasnaught;changewasnaught;allthingswereimmortalbutevil;allthingseternalbutgrief.

           Suddenly,thedawncame;theeastburnedroseatetowardthezenith.Vanameewalkedon,heknewnotwhere.Thedawngrewbrighter.Atlength,hepauseduponthecrestofahilloverlookingtheranchos,andcasthiseyebelowhimtothesouthward.Then,suddenlyflinginguphisarms,heutteredagreatcry.

           Thereitwas.TheWheat!TheWheat!Inthenightithadcomeup.Itwasthere,everywhere,frommargintomarginofthehorizon.