H. C. chanced to have one in his pocket-book, which he had once put aside for the Madrid houri who married the Russian nobleman. This he presented with much grace to the enraptured Sibyl. Their heads were very close together at the moment; there seemed a clinking sound in the air. We happened to be consulting the time, and on looking up, the Sibyl's face seemed flushed and conscious, and H. C.'s poetically pale complexion had put on a delicate pink. This was a little too suspicious--even to our unsuspecting mind--and with a hasty bow to the interesting assembly, and wishing them all good appetites and fair fortunes, we went on our way. Looking back once, the charming Sibyl was still gazing towards us with a very sentimental expression, whilst H. C. for the next ten minutes fell into silence.
The day wore on to evening. We watched the shades of night gathering over the vast valley and distant hills. Everything grew hazy and indistinct, and finally gave place to a world of darkness and mystery. The outlines of Mons Serratus loomed upwards against the night sky. The stars came out flashing and brilliant as they travelled along in their awful and majestic silence. The great constellations were strongly marked. Here and there lights twinkled in the monastery, and in the various houses of the settlement. Where the gipsy party had encamped, silence and solitude now reigned. A black mark told where the tripod had held the kettle and betrayed what had been. The whole encampment had returned to the lower world by the evening train. We had watched them enter a special carriage, which they filled to overflowing. Their spirits had not failed. As the train moved off they sent up a shout which echoed and re-echoed in many a gorge and cleft. Presently, when the stars had travelled onwards, we felt it was time to disappear from the world for a season. We were taking a last look at the Gothic arches, through which the sky and the stars shone with serene repose. The night was solemn and impressive; a strange hush lay upon all. It might have been a dead universe, only peopled by the spirits of the dead-and-gone monks and hermits roaming the mountain ranges. Throughout the little settlement not a soul crossed our path; doors and windows were closed; here and there a light still glimmered. We caught sight of another wandering light far up a mountain path, held by some one well acquainted with his ground--perhaps a last surviving hermit taking his walks abroad, or a monk contemplating death and eternity in this overwhelming darkness. We wondered whether it was Salvador, our musical monk, seeking fresh inspiration as he climbed nearer heaven.