ures
the sun makes uncomfortable. As soon as the sun is down he will be brave
enough."

He had scarcely said it when he repented; nor did he regret it the less
when he found that Photogen made no reply. But, alas! said was said.

"Then," said Photogen to himself, "that contemptible beast is one of the
terrors of sundown, of which Madam Watho spoke."

He hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit. He did not ride so
hard, and did not kill one buffalo. Fargu, to his dismay, observed also
that he took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the
forest. But all at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he seemed to
change his mind, for he turned his horse's head, and rode home so fast
that the rest could not keep him in sight. When they arrived, they found
his horse in the stable, and concluded that he had gone into the castle.
But he had, in truth, set out again by the back of it. Crossing the
river a good way up the valley, he reascended to the ground they had
left, and just before sunset reached the skirts of the forest.

The level orb shone straight in between the bare stems, and saying to
himself he could not fail to find the beast, he rushed into the wood.
But even as he entered, he turned and looked to the west. The rim of the
red sun was touching the horizon, all jagged with broken hills. "Now,"
said Photogen, "we shall see;" but he said it in the face of a darkness
he had not proved. The moment the sun began to sink among the spikes and
saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap at his heart, a fear inexplicable
laid hold of the youth; and as he had never felt anything of the kind
before, the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun sank, it rose
like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper and darker. He could not
even think what it might be, so utterly did it enfeeble him. When the
last flaming cimeter-edge of the sun went out like a lamp, his horror
seemed to blossom into very madness. Like the closing lids of an
eye--for there was no twilight, and this night no moon--the terror and
the darkness rushed together, and he knew them for one. He was no longer
the man he had known, or rather thought himself. The courage he had had
was in no sense his own; he had only had courage, not been courageous;
it had left him, and he could scarcely stand--certainly not stand
straight, for not one of his joints could he make stiff or keep from
trembling. He was but a spark of the sun, in himself nothing.

The bea