Herbert at last reached the spot, but so exhausted by the unaccustomed fatigue, that he threw himself down at Mark's feet, and with a wearied sigh exclaimed—
“Thank heaven, there is no more of it.”
“Day will not break for half an hour yet,” said Mark, pointing westward; “the grey dawn always shows over the sea. I have seen the whole surface like gold, before the dull mountains had one touch of light.”
The heavy breathing of the youth, as he lay with his head on Mark's knees, attracted him; he looked down, and perceived that Herbert had fallen into a calm and tranquil sleep.
“Poor fellow,” cried Mark, as he smoothed the hair upon his brow, “this toil has been too much for him.”
Placing himself in such a position as best to shelter his brother from the storm, Mark sat awaiting the breaking dawn. The hopes that in the active ascent of the mountain were high in his heart, already began to fail; exertion had called them forth, and now, at he sat silently amid the dreary waste of darkness, his spirit fell with every moment. One by one the bright visions he had conjured up faded away, his head fell heavily on his bosom, and thoughts gloomy and dark as the dreary morning crowded on his brain.
As he remained thus deep sunk in sad musings, the grey dawn broke over the sea, and gradually a pinkish hue stained the sky eastward. The rain, which up to this time drifted in heavy masses, ceased to fall; and instead of the gusty storm, blowing in fitful blasts, a gentle breese rolled the mists along the valleys, as if taking away the drapery of Night at the call of Morning. At first the mountain peaks appeared through the dense clouds; and then, by degrees, their steep sides, begirt with rock, and fissured with many a torrent. At length the deep valleys and glens began to open to the eye, and the rude cabins of the peasants, marked out by the thin blue wreath of smoke that rose into the air, ere it was scattered by the fresh breeze of morning. Over the sea the sunlight glittered, tipping the glad waves that danced and sported towards the shore, and making the white foam upon the breakers look fairer than snow itself. Mark looked upon the scene thus suddenly changed, and shaking his brother's arm, he called out—
“Awake, Herbert! see what a glorious day is breaking. Look, that is Sugarloaf, piercing the white cloud; and yonder is Castletown. See how the shore is marked out in every jutting point and cliff. I can see the Kenmare river as it opens to the sea.”
“It is indeed beautiful,” exclaimed Herbert, all fatigue forgotten in the ecstasy of the moment. “Is not that Garran Thual, Mark, that rears its head above the others?”
But Mark's eyes were turned in a different direction, and he paid no attention to the question.