I sat one April in Provence on a small hill above an ancient town
that Goth and Vandal as yet have forborne to "bring up to date."
On the hill was an old worn castle with a watch-tower, and a well with
narrow steps and water in it still.
The watch-tower, staring South with neglected windows, faced a broad
valley full of the pleasant twilight and the hum of evening things: it
saw the fires of wanderers blink from the hills, beyond them the long
forest black with pines, one star appearing, and darkness settling
slowly down on Var.
Sitting there listening to the green frogs croaking, hearing far
voices clearly but all transmuted by evening, watching the windows in
the little town glimmering one by one, and seeing the gloaming dwindle
solemnly into night, a great many things fell from mind that seem
important by day, and evening in their place planted strange fancies.
Little winds had arisen and were whispering to and fro, it grew cold,
and I was about to descend the hill, when I heard a voice behind me
saying, "Beware, beware."
So much the voice appeared a part of the evening that I did not turn
round at first; it was like voices that one hears in sleep and thinks
to be of one's dream. And the word was monotonously repeated, in
French.
When I turned round I saw an old man with a horn. He had a white beard
marvellously long, and still went on saying slowly, "Beware, beware."
He had clearly just come from the tower by which he stood, though I
had heard no footfall. Had a man come stealthily upon me at such an
hour and in so lonesome a place I had certainly felt surprised; but I
saw almost at once that he was a spirit, and he seemed with his
uncouth horn and his long white beard and that noiseless step of his
to be so native to that time and place that I spoke to him as one does
to some fellow-traveller who asks you if you mind having the window
up.