Rosamunde, climbing up the stone stair, found Miriam asleep on her bed in the corner. She did not trouble to wake the Jewess, but turned to the near window and looked out over the water. Twilight was descending, and the towering woods were steeped in the hoarse mystery of a winter’s eve. The crags in the west were edged with gold, and a luminous mist poured up towards the clouds. Above the black spires of the waving trees the sky was lurid, yet not with the sunset. Purple masses of vapour played over the forest, and there was a hot, parched perfume on the wind.
Rosamunde, troubled by the strange face of the sky, turned and woke Miriam from her sleep. Together they stood on the landing at the top of the stone steps and watched the red glow increase in the heavens. There was some huge power striding over the woods; its sound swelled the piping of the wind, a far roar as of the voice of a rising sea.
Miriam clung to Rosamunde’s shoulder.
“A wild sunset,” she said, not guessing the truth. “Pah! what a strange scent on the wind. How black the woods seem. We shall have a storm in the night.”
Rosamunde looked out on the scene in silence, with Miriam’s breath upon her cheek.
“It is no sunset,” she said at last; “it is not the full west, and there is no break in the clouds.”
“What means, then, the light in the sky, sister?”
“A forest fire,” said Rosamunde slowly.
“My God, we shall burn.”
“The water is broad enough to hold us safe.”