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286 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
newly fallen snow. It was a vision of transcendent
beauty, compared to which the cowbell-idyll under the
birch trees was commonplace.
The dead silence was suddenly broken by a sound from
below, where melancholy men and Momen toiled and
trembled in the grey gloom. It was a splashing sound
which approached deliberately ; so deliberately that my
eyes unconsciously tried to follow its course under the
cloud-cover. It sounded like a millstream, a brook
swollen with rain, a tidal wave. Then a scream rent the
air, loud and wild, as if all the dwellers in the four
cantons were calling for help against Uri-Rotstock ; it
was the shrill whistle of the paddle-boat whicli, pene-
trating the layer of clouds, gained in volume in the pure
air and was caught up and tossed from rock to rock by
the redundant echo of the Hochfluh.
It was noon ! Time to begin my descent through the
fog down to the greyness, the darkness, the damp, the
dirt, and wait for another three weeks, perhaps, for
another glimpse of the sun.
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