All about in the moss stood pools of black, stagnant water with little straggling bushes growing round them.

Under the clouds they were ink, but in the path of the red light, there they were blood.

A man with a large basket on his back and a long staff in his hand, was walking across the moss from west to east.

The wind tossed his cloak and bent his grey beard as he threaded his way among the pools.

The red light fell upon him also, and he looked as though he were on fire.