Mousmé still has hold of my hand, and I can see her face glancing upward now and then.
We might have remained there on the verandah with the light of the room behind us streaming out, a warm yellow patch, for another hour or two, so impressive was the view, and the silence which all three of us seemed so reluctant to break. But suddenly we are startled by the Boom! Boom—m—m! of the immense gong belonging to the Shinto monastery far below us down the mountain side. Such a noise!—awe-inspiring, terrific (if there be tone colours, then red, purple and orange), invading every hillside cranny, seeming positively to engulf us in its ever-widening air circles of sound.
“It has spoiled all,” whispers Mousmé, heaving a sigh.
“Yes, little Mousmé. See, it has even frightened the moonbeams.”
