Read it through once

One summer evening, as the sun was setting and the church-bell was calling the people to vespers, he led me out upon the hill that overlooks the village, and there, while the shadows lengthened, he told me the story of his own birth. He said he had come from a region where the world is looked at from above, where men are seen as motes, and where pity is a game. He spoke of spheres and orders of being, and his voice was as cool as a stream.