The daylight had now come; and Penn, who went out to take an observation, could discover no trace of the vanished rebels. The eastern sky was like a sheet of diaphanous silver, faintly crimsoned above the edges of the hills with streaks of the brightening dawn. All the valley below was inundated by a lake of level mist, whose subtle wave made islands of the hills, and shining inlets of the intervales. Above this sea of white silence rose the mountain ranges, inexpressibly calm and beautiful, fresh from their bath of starlight and dew, and empurpled with softest tints of the early morning.
Penn heard a footstep, and felt a touch on his arm. Was it the beauty of the earth and sky that made him shiver with so sudden and sweet a thrill? or was it the lovely presence at his side, in whom was incarnated, for him, all the beauty, all the light, all the joy of the universe?
It was Virginia, who leaned so gently on his arm, that not the slight pressure of her weight, but rather the impalpable shock of bliss her very nearness brought, made him aware of her approach. Toby followed, supporting her along the shelf of rock—a dark cloud in the wake of that rosy and perfumed dawn.
"O, how delicious it is out here!" said the voice, which, if we were to describe it from the lover's point of view, could be likened only to the songs of birds, the musical utterance of purest flutes, or the blowing of wild winds through those grand harp-strings, the mountain pines; for there was more of poetry and passion compressed in the heart of this quiet young Quaker than we shall venture to give breath to in these pages.
"It is—delicious!" he quiveringly answered, in his happy confusion blending her with his perception of the daybreak.
She inhaled deep draughts of the mountain air.
"How I love it! The breath of trees, and grass, and flowers is in it,—those dear friends of mine, that I pine for, shut up here in prison!"
"Do you?" said Penn, vaguely, half wishing that he was a flower, a blade of grass, or a tree, so that she might pine for him.
"The air of the cave," she said, "is cold; it is odorless. The cave seems to me like the great, chill hearts of some of your profound philosophers! Some of those tremendous books father makes me read to him came out of such hearts, I am sure; great hollow caverns, full of mystery and darkness, and so cold and dull they make me shudder to touch them;—but don't you, for the world, tell him I said so,—for, to please him, I let him think I am ever so much edified by everything that he likes."
"What sort of books do you like?"