“The mightiness of the Mount of Dread,” replied Ambrose, “appeareth not by height. Greatest and mightiest things look mean and ordinary—is’t not so?”
“With high spiritual things,” said I, “it may often be so; but with common things——”
“Nay, nay,” said he, “you are in the wrong. Consider gunpowder, that sooty grain—how much of it, think you, should suffice to uproot and shake to pieces the firm foundation on which we stand?”
We were now come to woods in low land. We entered in, following a secret path.
Fain would I tell you of the beauty of these woods; but, unless you could behold them, ’twere impossible you would understand.
I passed through them entranced. The woods on the shore of the Island of Hispaniola were beautiful, but not as these were; the foliage was not so shining green, nor so delicately rare. How can I tell you of the immense, massy leaves of the breadfruit trees? Of the great feathery ferns? Of the climbing ferns, knit in a network between the polished stems of the cocoa-palms, or hanging in air on their long, tremulous, hair-like trails?
Here and there, the undergrowth was decked with blossoming shrubs, pale primrose and gorgeous crimson. High overhead, close and intertwined, hung the fronds of the palm trees, gently stirred by the breeze, glinting and flashing in the green sunlight, like a roof wrought in jade.
As we passed, a bevy of blue and scarlet birds started in the thicket amongst the tall grasses, and flew scattering up through the palm-fronds like winged blossoms, but with scarce any cry. Indeed, as I learnt after, all the birds in the island were dumb. But there came continually a humming and chirruping of insects, and sudden stirrings and rustlings, as little creatures of the undergrowth took flight.
Our way was entangled with cross-shoots, and the snake-like tendrils of creepers.
“The Doctor would like this ill,” said Ambrose, as he lopped a branch off. “I shall warn Barleycorn. ’Tis like to save his life.”