light and shadow, of sound and silence, of dread and hope, of
sadness and joy.

That pale, ruddy glow lingered over the bold heave of the range in
the west. It was like a fire that would not go out, that would live
to-morrow, and burn golden. The sky shone with deep, rich blue color
fired with a thousand stars, radiant, speaking, hopeful. And there
was a white track across the heavens. The mountains flung down their
shadows, impenetrable, like the gloomy minds of men; and everywhere
under the bluffs and slopes, in the hollows and ravines, lay an
enveloping blackness, hiding its depth and secret and mystery.

Joan listened. Was there sound or silence? A faint and indescribably
low roar, so low that it might have been real or false, came on the
soft night breeze. It was the roar of the camp down there--the
strife, the agony, the wild life in ceaseless action--the strange
voice of gold, roaring greed and battle and death over the souls of
men. But above that, presently, rose the murmur of the creek, a
hushed and dreamy flow of water over stones. It was hurrying to get
by this horde of wild men, for it must bear the taint of gold and
blood. Would it purge itself and clarify in the valleys below, on
its way to the sea? There was in its murmur an imperishable and
deathless note of nature, of time; and this was only a fleeting day
of men and gold.

Only by straining her ears could Joan hear these sounds, and when
she ceased that, then she seemed to be weighed upon and claimed by
silence. It was not a silence like that of Lost Canon, but a silence
of solitude where her soul stood alone. She was there on earth, yet
no one could hear her mortal cry. The thunder of avalanches or the