Ht tbe Sign of tbe Beautiful Star. 1 63 



for dawn, we were warm enough. The night air had 

 no frosty bite. It was as soft as it was clear. And 

 when the fresh gusts rustled the leaves and shook 

 the branches of our sylvan roof, the breath of the 

 wind was quick with the odours of the forest, and 

 electric with the ozone of high altitudes. 



It is not to be supposed that we slept and 

 dreamed away those precious night-watches. Does 

 anybody imagine that we would climb four miles 

 and drag heavy loads of food and bedding with us, 

 and lie down on the thinly disguised side of a rocky 

 ledge, just for the sake of getting a night's rest ? We 

 could have done this at home : and found softer beds, 

 easier pillows, and more persuasions to slumber. We 

 had ascended this " hill of the Lord " that we might 

 revel in the glories of a summer night. We could 

 sleep any time. But such nights are rare, and rarer 

 still the chance of spending them in the open air. 

 The price of a few hours' sleep is a small premium to 

 pay for such a night's joy and refreshment. 



The hours rolled swiftly away. There was 

 occasional chat and banter. But for the most part 

 long silences, snatches of sleep, open eyes gazing into 

 the starry deeps, ears sharpened by the silences for 

 the faintest sounds of the night. The ear had the 

 least gratification of all the senses. In the early 

 night-watches I heard but the voice of the wind, 

 the "cheep" of some waking bird, the baying of a 

 hound in the valleys, and once the distant whistle of 

 a locomotive ; later the wind died away and a pro- 



