he top, against
the far-off sky. The deep-red, fluted trunks gleamed with a pale luminous
rose, and long straight avenues of fire-dust stretched away to the end of
the world. A flood of golden flame poured through the forest, like a tidal
wave out of the sun. Then came an ebb, a pause. The wave receded. A faint
purple haze, like smoke from burning heliotropes, crept along the ground.
The torch of sunset broke into a million stars; blazing golden spiders
swung from glittering webs among the treetops; the melting crowns of the
redwoods dripped rubies. Red meteors fell and burst, and the wild glory
faded suddenly into a subdued, reminiscent glow. It was as if a cupful of
ruddy wine had been drunk at a gulp, leaving but a few drops to stain the
crystal. The rosy radiance ran along the horizon, and all that lived of
the sunset clung to the far edge of the world or caught the gold horns of
the Grizzly Giant's crown, which, like a high mountain summit, could hold
the light of day while night purpled the plain below.

All day a concert of birds had filled the upper chambers of the trees with
silver pipings, but now not a bird voice spoke. There was silence, except
for a faint mysterious stirring, as of dryads beginning to wake and dress
for their night-flitting when a moonbeam should tap on their shut doors.
The lilac haze floated up from the ground, and slowly, very slowly, turned
to silver touched with rose. Like a veil it spread among the trees
tangling among their sharp branches, its lacy mesh tearing, to leave dark
jagged holes. But unseen hands mended the rent and wove the veil into a
curtain that screened the distance and was pinned up with stars.

The whole forest rustled with mystery in the strange pulsing luminance
that was neither sunset nor moonrise, but the memory of one, and a hope of
the other--the kind of light that a blind man might see in dreams.

"Now--Angela," Nick half whispered, in awe at the name on his lips, the
name of a goddess uttered by a mortal. (Extra hazard!--extra hazard!) At
last he laid his hand on hers, warm and close, and her lips opened to
break the spell, when a voice called to Nick in the distance:

"Nick! Nick Hilliard, where are you?"

Angela drew away quickly, the spell broken indeed. He sprang to his feet,
his face, that had been pale, flushing.

"It's Mrs. Gaylor's voice," he said, astonished and incredulous, as if at
the call of a ghost.

XXVI

AN INVITATION FROM CARMEN