Her hair in disorder, her sleeves pinned loosely on her shoulders,
her whole face aglow with the earnestness of her task, she bent
low over the stones, rinsing the altar-cloth up and down in the
water, anxiously scanning it, then plunging it in again.
The sunset beams played around her hair like a halo; the whole
place was aglow with red light, and her face was kindled into
transcendent beauty. A sound arrested her attention. She looked
up. Forms, dusky black against the fiery western sky, were coming
down the valley. It was the band of Indian shearers. They turned to
the left, and went towards the sheep sheds and booths. But there
was one of them that Ramona did not see. He had been standing
for some minutes concealed behind a large willow-tree a few rods
from the place where Ramona was kneeling. It was Alessandro,
son of Pablo Assis, captain of the shearing band. Walking slowly
along in advance of his men, he had felt a light, as from a mirror
held in the sun, smite his eyes. It was the red sunbeam on the
glittering water where Ramona knelt.
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