146 Idylls of the Field. 



watch his figure dwindle in the distance until at last he 

 sinks down among the shadows of the pines. 



But it is time to turn back. It is drawing near the 

 hour of sunset, for the horizon here is half-way up the 

 sky. By the time you have got back to the boat and 

 paddled across the lake, the hush of night is already 

 settling down upon the little hostelry. Bold and clear 

 against the saffron west stand the stern outlines of the 

 mountains. 



No sound disturbs the silence but the rush of a 

 torrent or the wail of some night-wandering bird. 



Suddenly the night comes down. From the dark 

 vault overhead myriads of stars look down into the 

 glassy lake. 



Or, after a day of heat and ominous gloom, there 

 descends upon the mountains the terror of a midnight 

 storm. How awful in the still hours of night sounds 

 the loud artillery of heaven ! Far through the tossing 

 forest howls the sudden tempest. The rude windows 

 rattle with a great rush of rain. An incessant blaze of 

 quivering light reveals the calm faces of the mountains, 

 looking down unmoved upon the tumult. Along the 

 stupendous cliffs rolls the long roar of the thunder — 



While frighted echoes, in the gorges round, 

 Waked for a moment, calling each to each 

 With fainter voices, sink again to sleep. 



