Explore "The Vintage" by E.F. Benson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was the middle of March when Mitsos again found himself climbing the steep hill-side into Panitza. Night had fallen two hours before; clear and keen was the sky, and keen the vigor of the mountain air. The crescent moon, early setting, had slipped behind the snowy spearhead of Taygetus, but the heaven was all aglow with stars burning frostily. His work had all been done quickly and well, and after he had seen the beacon at Bassae, three nights before, shine like a glowworm to the north, and then shoot out a little tongue of flame and lick a low-lying star, he had travelled night and day, only giving himself a minimum of sleep, and walking as much as he rode to spare the pony, that seemed, as they came into Panitza with Mitsos only resting a hand on its neck, to be the more weary of the two. He went up the village street to Petrobey's house, but found the door into the court-yard closed, and only Osman at first answered his knocking by furious barking.
"Osman, oh, Osman," called Mitsos, "be quiet, boy, and let them hear within."