THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
was so hollow it seemed that a stir would set it sounding to the far mountain tops; but everything that was abroad in it seemed to conspire to keep it whole. Not a twig cracked under any stealthy tread. All creatures that were abroad must be the cushion-footed—themselves respecters of noiselessness. Even the eye could discover no motion. The river might have been a snake stretched out asleep, the trees printed on the sky. The only thing that moved was the shadow of the dead pine, and that was like the hand of a clock too slow to be perceived in motion. He listened with distended senses. It seemed to him he could hear the movement of thoughts in his own brain, the flowing of the blood in his fingertips; but outside of himself not a sound. The air, sick for vibrations, was vibrating by its own emptiness. Like a gong, it assailed the senses in waves, at first beating in upon them from without. Then, as he stretched his ears to hear above it, the gong seemed to be within his head struck upon by his furious pulses, sending out a prolonged shrill ringing, so loud it seemed this sound in the ear of imagination would have drowned a thunderclap.
Not thunder, but a light faint noise at some distance made all the vibration cease. On the instant silence was as still as crystal to the real sound. It rang first as a single dull blow struck like a challenge
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