There they stand, one straight continuous jagged wall, of which no
one point seems higher than another. From the Pic d'Ossau, by the
Mont Perdu and the Maladetta to the Pic de Lart, are peaks past
counting--hard clear white against the hard clear blue, and blazing
with keen light beneath the high southern sun. Each peak carries its
little pet cushion of cloud, hanging motionless a few hundred yards
above in the blue sky, a row of them as far as eye can see. But,
ever and anon, as afternoon draws on, one of those little clouds,
seeming tired of waiting at its post ever since sunrise, loses its
temper, boils, swells, settles down on its own private peak, and
explodes in a fierce thunderstorm down its own private valley,
without discomposing in the least its neighbour cloud-cushions right
and left. Faintly the roll of the thunder reaches the ear. Across
some great blackness of cloud and cliff, a tiny spark darts down. A
long wisp of mist sweeps rapidly toward you across the lowlands, and
a momentary brush of cold rain lays the dust. And then the pageant
is played out, and the disturbed peak is left clear again in the blue
sky for the rest of the day, to gather another cloud-cushion when to-
morrow's sun shall rise.
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