But Presley left the road at this point, going on across the open fields.

There was no longer any trail.

It was toward three o'clock.

The sun still spun, a silent, blazing disc, high in the heavens, and tramping through the clods of uneven, broken plough was fatiguing work.

The slope of the lowest foothills begun, the surface of the country became rolling, and, suddenly, as he topped a higher ridge, Presley came upon the sheep.
Already he had passed the larger part of the herd--an intervening rise of ground having hidden it from sight.