BULLER.
Coruscation—explosion—are but feeble words.
NORTH.
The Cathedral's on Fire.
BULLER.
I don't mind so much those wide flarings among the piled clouds, as these gleams——oh!
NORTH.
Where art thou, Cruachan! Ay—methinks I see thee—methinks I do not—thy Three Peaks may not pierce the masses that now oppress thee—but behind the broken midway clouds, those black purple breadths of solid earth are thine—thine those unmistakeable Cliffs—thine the assured beauty of that fearless Forest—and may the lightning scathe not one single tree!
BULLER.
Nor man.