The Night Watchman. ll

…He was in the act of sitting down when suddenly he stiffened. He was sure he could see a movement in the field opposite the factory on the other side of the road. Perhaps it was the breeze. No, not with that kind of movement, surely. He could not be certain in the gathering dusk. But he could not let it be. He had to still his suspicions. He hobbled over to the low rubble wall on the other side of the road. There, sitting on the ground, resting against the hard-jutting granite of the rubble wall was a young woman. She hardly looked a day older than twenty.

The Night Watchman. l

The valley was a riot of colors, large fields that stretched from end to end, immense carpets of red clover, yellow ears of corn and green beans swaying in the summer evening breeze. A narrow road wound its way along one side of the valley, its surface freshly tarmaced. On one side, almost in the middle of the valley, was one blot in the otherwise picturesque surroundings. It was a small tile factory, four rooms built around a large yard where tiles of all shapes, sizes, and colors, baked in the Mediterranean sun.