mpression produced on any
one who heard it by that curt, mocking voice which now disturbed the
solitude and the shadows. It vibrated an instant in the darkness, which
seemed to quiver with it; then it slowly died away without an echo,
escaping by all the many openings made by the wings of time.

As he had expected, Roland's eyes had accustomed themselves to the
darkness, and now, by the pale light of the rising moon, whose long,
white rays penetrated the refectory through the broken windows, he could
see distinctly from one end to the other of the vast apartment. Although
Roland was as evidently without fear internally as externally, he was
not without distrust, and his ear caught the slightest sounds.

He heard the half-hour strike. In spite of himself the sound startled
him, for it came from the bell of the convent. How was it that, in this
ruin where all was dead, a clock, the pulse of time, was living?

"Oh! oh!" said Roland; "that proves that I shall see something."

The words were spoken almost in an aside. The majesty of the place and
the silence acted upon that heart of iron, firm as the iron that had
just tolled the call of time upon eternity. The minutes slowly passed,
one after the other. Perhaps a cloud was passing between earth and
moon, for Roland fancied that the shadows deepened. Then, as midnight
approached, he seemed to hear a thousand confused, imperceptible sounds,
coming no doubt from the nocturnal universe which wakes while the other
sleeps. Nature permits no suspension of life, even for repose. She
created her nocturnal world, even as she created her daily world, from
the gnat which buzzes about the sleeper's pillow to the lion prowling
around the Arab's bivouac.

But Roland, the camp watcher, the sentinel of the desert, Roland, the
hunter, the soldier, knew all those sounds; they were powerless to
disturb him.

Then, mingling with these sounds, the tones of the clock, chiming the
hour, vibrated above his head. This time it was midnight. Roland counted
the twelve strokes, one after the other. The last hung, quivering upon
the air, like a bird with iron wings, then slowly expired, sad and
mournful. Just then the young man, thought he heard a moan. He listened
in the direction whence it came. Again he heard it, this time nearer at
hand.

He rose, his hands resting upon the table, the butt-end of a pistol
beneath each palm. A rustle like that of a sheet or a gown trailing
along the grass was