Now and then two or three sheep crossed over with the tinkling of a bell.  In the silence and stillness and brooding heat, the larks came and dusted themselves in the white impalpable powder of the road.  Farther away the partridges stole quietly to an anthill at the edge of some barley.  By the white road, a white milestone, chipped and defaced, stood almost hidden among thistles and brambles.  Some white railings guarded the sides of a bridge, or rather a low arch over a dry watercourse.  Heat, dust, a glaring whiteness, and a boundless expanse of golden wheat on either hand.

After awhile a towering four-in-hand coach rose out of the hollow where it had been hidden, and came bowling along the level.  The rapid hoofs beat the dust, which sprang up and followed behind in a cloud, stretching far in the rear, for in so still an atmosphere the particles were long before they settled again.  White parasols and light dust coats—­everything that could be contrived for coolness—­gay feathers and fluttering fringes, whose wearers sat in easy attitudes enjoying the breeze created by the swift motion.  Upon such a day the roof of a coach is more pleasant than the thickest shade, because of that current of air, for the same leaves that keep off the sun also prevent a passing zephyr from refreshing the forehead.  But the swifter the horses the sweeter the fresh wind to fan the delicate cheek and drooping eyelid of indolent beauty.  So idle were they all that they barely spoke, and could only smile instead of laugh if one exerted himself to utter a good jest.  The gentleman who handled the ribbons was the only one thoroughly awake.

His eyes were downcast, indeed, because they never left his horses, but his ears were sharply alive to the rhythmic beat of the hoofs and the faint creak and occasional jingle of the harness.  Had a single shoe failed to send forth the proper sound as it struck the hard dry road, had there been a creak or a jingle too many, or too few, those ears would instantly have detected it.  The downcast eyes that looked neither to the right nor left—­at the golden wheat or the broad fields of barley—­were keenly watching the ears of the team, and noting how one of the leaders lathered and flung white froth upon the dust.  From that height the bowed backs of the reapers were visible in the corn.  The reapers caught sight of the coach, and stood up to look, and wiped their brows, and a distant hurrah came from the boys among them.  In all the pomp and glory of paint and varnish the tall coach rolled on, gently swaying from side to side as the springs yielded to the irregularities of the road.  It came with a heavy rumble like far-away thunder over the low arch that spanned the dry water-course.