And the good judge,
too. I don't care if the loons do cry; the night is beautiful."
And it was, had their hearts been in tune to enjoy it. A gibbous
moon had risen, and, inefficient as it was to light up the
recesses of the forest, it illumined the tree-tops and brought out
the difference between earth and sky. The road, known to the
horses, if not to themselves, extended like a black ribbon under
their eyes, but the patches of light which fell across it at
intervals took from it the uninterrupted gloom it must have
otherwise had. Mr. Sloan, who was at once their guide and host,
promised that dawn would be upon them before they reached the huge
gully which was the one dangerous feature of the road. But as yet
there were no signs of dawn; and to Reuther, as well as to Mr.
Black, this ride through the heart of a wilderness in a darkness
which might have been that of midnight by any other measure than
that of the clock, had the effect of a dream in which one is only
sufficiently in touch with past commonplaces to say, "This is a
dream and not reality. I shall soon wake." A night to remember to
the end of one's days; an experience which did not seem real at
the time and was never looked back upon as real--and yet, one with
which neither of them would have been willing to part.
Their guide had prophesied truly. Heralded by that long cry of the
loon, the dawn began to reveal itself in clearness of perspective
and a certain indefinable stir in the still, shrouded spaces of
the woods.
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