Those golden curls shaking about his head as he ran and
filling the air with radiance round his brow, looked like a Nimbus or
circlet of glory. So they called him St. Guido, and a very, very wild
saint he was.
St. Guido stopped in the cornfield, and looked all round. There were the
fir-trees behind him--a thick wall of green--hedges on the right and the
left, and the wheat sloped down towards an ash-copse in the hollow. No
one was in the field, only the fir-trees, the green hedges, the yellow
wheat, and the sun overhead, Guido kept quite still, because he expected
that in a minute the magic would begin, and something would speak to him.
His cheeks which had been flushed with running grew less hot, but I
cannot tell you the exact colour they were, for his skin was so white and
clear, it would not tan under the sun, yet being always out of doors it
had taken the faintest tint of golden brown mixed with rosiness. His blue
eyes which had been wide open, as they always were when full of mischief,
became softer, and his long eyelashes drooped over them. But as the magic
did not begin, Guido walked on slowly into the wheat, which rose nearly
to his head, though it was not yet so tall as it would be before the
reapers came.
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