Farina, The Back-Blows of Sathanas

⁠​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌⁠Monk Gregory was pacing the high road between the Imperial camp and suffering Cologne. The sun had risen through interminable distances of cloud that held him remote in a succession of receding mounds and thinner veils, realm beyond realm, till he showed fireless, like a phantom king in a phantom land. The lark was in the breast of morning. The field-mouse ran along the furrows. Dews hung red and