They came riding through the rainstorm as I sheltered under the pines. No weather for a pair so long in years and the sagging horse no less weary. Does the old man fear for the animal's heart with one more step? Why else halt in the mud with twenty paces still to the nearest tree? Yet the horse stands with patience under the downpour as the old man lifts her down. Could they perform the task more slowly were they painted figures in a picture? "Come, friends," I call to them. "Hurry and take shelter."

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