Our gentlemanly host ushered us
forth upon a terrace overhanging the deep gorge of the Saaerine,
spanned, to the right and left of us, by two immense suspension
bridges, one of which seemed to spring from the hotel itself. Ruins of
ancient walls and watch towers lined the precipice.
After dinner we visited the cathedral to hear the celebrated organ.
The organist performed a piece descriptive of a storm. We resigned
ourselves to the illusion. Low, mysterious wailings, swelling, dying
away in the distance, seeming at first exceedingly remote, drew
gradually near. Fitful sighings and sobbings rose, as of gusts of
wind; then low, smothered roarings. Anon came flashes of lightning,
rattling hail, and driving rain, succeeded by bursts of storm, and
howlings of a hurricane--fierce, furious, frightful. I felt myself
lost in a snow storm in winter, on the pass of Great St. Bernard.
One note there was of strange, terrible clangor--bleak, dark, yet of a
lurid fire--that seemed to prolong itself through all the uproar, like
a note of doom, cutting its way to the heart as the call of the last
archangel. Yes, I felt myself alone, lost in a boundless desert,
beyond the abodes of man; and this was a call of terror-stern, savage,
gloomy--the call as of fixed fate and absolute despair.
Pages:
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384