Distance failed.

The cuckoos were silent.

There was none of the beauty that there is in death, no tragic greatness--all was moaning and monotony.

But about seven the sun tore its way back through the swathe, and flared out.

Like some huge star, whose rays were stretching down to the horizon, and up to the very top of the hill of air, it shone with an amazing murky glamour; the clouds splintered by its shafts, and tinged saffron, piled themselves up as if in wonder.
Under the sultry warmth of this new great star, the heather began to steam a little, and the glitter of its wet unopened bells was like that of innumerable tiny smoking fires.