There
was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky
brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in
mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of
the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a
giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the
sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green and copper
hues as brilliant and shifting as the bristling points of lifted spears.
Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as
though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half
disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner
lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.
A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more
and more absorbed and serious. The scornful words of the proud old Olaf
Gueldmar rankled in his mind and stung him. "An idle trifler with
time--an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back
on his life with a feeling kin to contempt.
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