noon
Marcello coughed a little as he and Corbario trudged home through the sand under the hot May sun . It was sultry , though there were few clouds , and everything that grew looked suddenly languid ; each flower and shrub gave out its own peculiar scent abundantly , the smell of last year 's rotting leaves and twigs all at once returned and mingled with the odours of green things and of the earth itself , and the heavy air was over-rich with it all , and hard to breathe . By and by the clouds would pile themselves up into vast grey and black fortresses , far away beyond Rome , between the Alban and the Samnite hills , and the lightning would dart at them and tear them to pieces in spite , while the thunder roared out at each home-thrust that it was well done ; and then the spring rain would sweep the Campagna , by its length and breadth , from the mountains to the sea , and the world would be refreshed . But now it was near noon and a heavy weariness lay upon the earth . `` You are tired , '' said Corbario , as they reached the shade of some trees , less than half a mile from the cottage . `` Let us sit down for a while . '' They sat down , where they could see the sea .