Publisher's Synopsis
It was Geraint's dog who heard the sound. Head up, collar bristling, body quivering, he stood with his muzzle pointing south. Geraint, riding ahead of the wagon and its guard of spears, reined in, and held up an arm. He spoke to the dog, and the big boarhound, looking up at him, whimpered and stood sniffing the air. From the road a stretch of grass rose gradually to a beech wood, a black wood powdered gold and green and steeping its summit in the sunlight of a May morning. The sky was blue, the grass full of flowers; a little warm wind came out of the south. The stillness was absolute, the stillness of grass and of trees.
