CHAPTER XIV.
THE FOREST OF SORBA.
When at last cold dawn had passed away, and given place to rosy morning, such a view was gleaming in through the little open window as seemed almost to compensate for horrors past.
What mattered it now, in the clear brilliant sunshine, that a monstrous black beetle, overcome by slumber or reflection, was looking down serenely from the wall just above; or that, on lifting a shoe from the floor, two more hopped out merrily?
A pure cone of glistening snow was rising from a belt of pines and chestnut woods from the valley in which stood the inn, and blocking up the little window with a dazzling vicinity of beauty.
The blue sky behind it shone like a sapphire, and everything seemed sparkling in the glorious pure early sunshine; snow girdles above, and dewdrops from green branches below, whilst larks were thrilling the air with their mysterious hidden song:—
"What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.