"The lake presents an unearthly appearance in this silver twilight,"
remarked Lord Canning. "It is vanishing quickly. There's still a
parting gleam touching the dark pines here and there--lingering like the
last caress of a dying hand. Everything is becoming vague. The world
is fading away from us. How fascinating--these last few moments before
the dawn. Ah, it is breaking! That suggestion of dark shore--this pale
light on the black lake. Why, we are on the River Styx. Haller doesn't
look unlike Charon. I can see you dimly, Miss Stillwater--a little
ghost in your white cloak. We are all ghosts." He lowered his voice.
"I am positive that Mr. Masters sitting there, with his mandolin, could
not present a more tragic figure if his eternal punishment were to play
for the amusement of all the shades crossing to Hades!"
Indiana laughed. Glen bit his lips savagely. It sounded to him like
the mocking laugh he had heard in his dreams, on the farm in the West,
that miserable week when he had exiled himself.
The morning mists floated above them, growing denser. The clouds
reflecting in the glassy lake, exposed only a fringe of red foliage.
Gradually the mists were tinged with a faint opaline glow, deepening
gradually. The sun rose as they neared Camp Indiana.
*CHAPTER XII.*
*Leading to the Altar.*
Glen did not renounce his original intention of climbing White Face
mountains. He slept for two hours, breakfasted, and started for White
Face trail at ten o'clock. There was no one stirring at the camp. When
he returned it was four in the afternoon. He found Indiana lying in the
hammock on the balcony, Lord Canning, seated beside her, reading poetry
aloud.