Cold mist had lain all the day through—breaking with vestiges of sunlight and sudden sights of snow as we left the sheepyards—but now enfolding us entirely with thick, damp touch. The breath of the three horses steamed, mist-blending. Hooves trotting, squelched up the old track traversing the hillside to Towong house on the point above the flats.

Through the gate by the line of oaks—cold hands undid the chain that chinked on the metal bar—and there was strange sunglitter in the mist on the bare hilltop above us and then redgold on the flaming oak boughs. But mist wound wet tendrils round hair and ears, binding us in space, holding us in cold time. Half-forgotten was the work just finished—there was no flow nor flux. In this mist all was held still.