There was no sign of a returning sail, and
he resumed his study of the sumptuous sky, the colors of which were now
deepening and burning with increasing lustre, while an array of clouds
of the deepest purple hue, swept gorgeously together beneath the sun as
though to form his footstool.
"One might imagine that the trump of the Resurrection had sounded, and
that all this aerial pomp,--this strange silence,--was just the pause,
the supreme moment before the angels descended," he mused, with a
half-smile at his own fancy, for though something of a poet at heart, he
was much more of a cynic. He was too deeply imbued with modern
fashionable atheism to think seriously about angels or Resurrection
trumps, but there was a certain love of mysticism and romance in his
nature, which not even his Oxford experiences and the chilly dullness of
English materialism had been able to eradicate. And there was something
impressive in the sight of the majestic orb holding such imperial revel
at midnight,--something almost unearthly in the light and life of the
heavens, as compared with the referential and seemingly worshipping
silence of the earth,--that, for a few moments, awed him into a sense of
the spiritual and unseen.
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