They watched, in silence, the changes creeping over the heavens, the subtle transmutations of tint; the fairylands of cloud, growing like dreams, and melting in golden annihilation; the more delicate and exquisite, the sooner the end.
The first pale hints of splendour had spread, till the whole West was throbbing with the radiance. But it was short-lived. The soul of the light, with its vital vibrating quality, seemed to die, and then slowly the glow faded, till every sparkle was gone, and the amphitheatre of the sky lay cold, and dusk, and empty. It was not till the last gleam had melted away that a word was spoken.
“It is like a prophecy,” said Hadria.
“To-morrow the dawn, remember.”
Hadria’s thoughts ran on in the silence.
The dawn? Yes; but all that lost splendour, those winged islands, those wild ranges of mountain where the dreams dwell; to-morrow’s dawn brings no resurrection for them. Other pageants there will be, other cloud-castles, but never again just those.
Had the Professor been following her thoughts?
“Life,” he said, “offers her gifts as the Sibyl her books; they grow fewer as we refuse them.”
“Ah! that is the truth that clamours in my brain, warning and pointing to an empty temple, like the deserted sky, a little while ahead.”
“Be warned then.”