Again the river, winding through the pleasant valley, framed in gently rising hill-sides, appeared as great silver ribbon, decorating a mass of heavily-embroidered green velvet.

Again Sardis lay at the foot of the hills, its coarse and common place outlines softened into glorious symmetry by the moonlight's wondrous witchery.
He stopped for a moment and glanced at the old apple-tree, under which they had stood when "Their spirits rushed together at the meeting of their lips." But its raiment of odorous blossoms was gone.

Instead, it bore a load of shapeless, sour, unripened fruit.

Instead of the freshling springing grass, at its foot was now a coarse stubble.

Instead of the delicately sweet breath of violets and fruit blooms scenting the evening air came the heavy, persistent perfume of tuberoses, and the mawkish scent of gaudy poppies.
"Bah, it smells like a funeral," he said, and he turned away and walked slowly down the hill.