The night closed in with a tempest of almost tropical violence. The inky
darkness of the sky was relieved, at intervals, by sheets of lurid flame,
which revealed, by its intense brightness, every object far off or near.
The distant lake, just seen amid the screen of leaves through the gorge of
the valley, gleamed like a sea of molten sulphur; the deep narrow defile,
shut in by the steep and wooded hills, looked deeper, more wild and gloomy,
when revealed by that vivid glare of light.
There was no stir among the trees, the heavy rounded masses of foliage
remained unmoved; the very aspen, that tremulous sensitive tree, scarcely
stirred; it seemed as if the very pulses of nature were at rest. The solemn
murmur that preceded the thunder-peal might have been likened to the
moaning of the dying. The children felt the loneliness of the spot. Seated
at the entrance of their sylvan hut, in front of which their evening fire
burned brightly, they looked out upon the storm in silence and in
awe. Screened by the sheltering shrubs that grew near them, they felt
comparatively safe from the dangers of the storm, which now burst in
terrific violence above the valley.
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