And he remembered that Jacky Pascoe had thrown out a hint of a great revival to be held on Baal-fire Night (as he called it).
The night was sultry and all but windless.

For once the tormented sands had rest.

The flame of the bonfires shone yellow-- orange-yellow--and steady.

He could see the dark figures of men and women, passing between him and the nearest, on the high wastrel in front of Tredinnis great gates.

Their voices reached him in a confused murmur, broken now and then by a child's scream of delight.
And yet a hush seemed to hang over sea and land: an expectant hush.
For weeks the sky had not rained.