Атлант расправил плечи
By our love
TheswiftnessofFrancisco’smovementswascarryinghimtowardthehillwhilehewasraisinghisheadtoglanceup.Hesawherabove,atthedoorofthecabin,andstopped.Shecouldnotdistinguishtheexpressiononhisface.Hestoodstillforalongmoment,hisfaceraisedtoher.Thenhestartedupthehill.
Shefelt—almostasifshehadexpectedit—thatthiswasascenefromtheirchildhood.Hewascomingtowardher,notrunning,butmovingupwardwithakindoftriumphant,confidenteagerness.No,shethought,thiswasnottheirchildhood—itwasthefutureasshewouldhaveseenitthen,inthedayswhenshewaitedforhimasforherreleasefromprison.Itwasamoment’sviewofamorningtheywouldhavereached,ifhervisionoflifehadbeenfulfilled,iftheyhadbothgonethewayshehadthenbeensocertainofgoing.Heldmotionlessbywonder,shestoodlookingathim,takingthismoment,notinthenameofthepresent,butasasalutetotheirpast.
Whenhewascloseenoughandshecoulddistinguishhisface,shesawthelookofthatluminousgaietywhichtranscendsthesolemnbyproclaimingthegreatinnocenceofamanwhohasearnedtherighttobelight-hearted.Hewassmilingandwhistlingsomepieceofmusicthatseemedtoflowlikethelong,smooth,risingflightofhissteps.
