Now, for the first time to-night, the moon shone fully out from her veil
of cloud, casting a flood of silver radiance, and showing him a scene in
white and black, still and clear as a steel engraving, of a beauty so
unimagined and grand that it seemed a little awful. It gave him a
sudden respect for the unreclaimed, seldom-trodden region to which his
craving for adventure had brought him.
The outline of Old Squaw Mountain could be plainly discerned, a dark,
towering shape against the horizon. A few stars glinted like a diamond
diadem above its brow. Down its sides and from the base stretched a
sable mantle of forest, enwrapping Squaw Pond, of which the moon made a
mirror.
"My! I think this would make the fellows in Manchester open their eyes a
bit," muttered Neal aloud. "Only one feels as if he ought to see some
old Indian brave such as Cyrus tells about,--a Touch-the-Cloud, or
Whistling Elk, or Spotted Tail, come gliding towards him out of the
woods in his paint and feather toggery. Glad I didn't visit Maine a
hundred years ago, though, when there'd have been a chance of such a
meeting.
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