George Gibbs (1) (1870–1942)

Started reading, finished by skimming after I realized I didn't care much about the people and the writing wasn't good enough to revive my interest...took itself too seriously, and the girl got righteously indignant over everything.

In the still evening air the dust hung golden for a moment and then slowly settled on tree and hedgerow; from a distance, faintly diminishing, the tinkle of sheep bells, the call of a bird, the sighing of a breeze, and then, silence.
Against the stillness, suddenly, as though pricked upon the velvety background of the summer night, a quick, sharp staccato note near at hand, a crackle as of brittle things breaking and a large thorn bush by the side of the deserted road quivered and shook as show more its leaves parted and a head appeared.
It was an eager, boyish head, but almost unpleasantly alert, its brows furrowing, its dark eyes peering to right and left, with a swift furtiveness that held little of assurance. A moment of quick inspection and a pair of broad shoulders emerged, followed by a body and long legs which strode into the middle of the road where the man paused a moment looking at the afterglow in the west and then set off with long steps to the south. He wore what had once been a uniform of the Légionnaire, but rough contacts and hard usage had eliminated all distinguishing marks, and a coating of dust and stain had further disguised him. It seemed as though Nature, conspiring as it does against the enemies of its wild people, had given this man its protective coloring, that he might elude those who sought him. To carry the analogy further he was shaggy, unkempt, dusty and lean, like a brown bear sniffing the breeze after a long period of hibernation.
The stride was rapid but it was cautious too and once at a fancied shadow in the road ahead of him, the soldier darted into the bushes and crouched listening. Fear had made him cautious, but his necessity knew no law, so he rose at last, went onward more rapidly into the gathering dusk, aware that the end of his pilgrimage was near at hand--there just beyond the hills before him in the free republic of the Swiss.
As he neared the lights of the village, his pace grew slower, and leaving the road he turned into a meadow to his right in the direction of a grove of trees which seemed to promise a temporary refuge while he planned a raid upon some nearby larder or hen-roost. But contrary to his expectations, when he reached the shadows of the trees, he found his way impeded by a high stone wall, which thrust suddenly upon him out of the darkness. A wall! A monastery? Or a barracks perhaps, full of the hated gray uniforms guarding the frontier! He paused a moment, deliberating, but conscious of more than a mild curiosity as to the purpose of this walled enclosure, high up on this mountain side which seemed so peaceful and so free from the horrors he had left back there in the levels below. Only yesterday, down the valley he had seen them--the gray uniforms--and here too, at any moment... show less