Soar up, old bird, and bide thy time; on yonder precipice thou shalt have good chance of a meal.
Twilight, and then night, and yet the snow but half past.

There is a rock in a hollow, where grow a few scanty tufts of grass which the poor horse may eat.

Here he will camp, fireless, foodless, and walk up and down the livelong night, for sleep might be death.

Though he is not in thoroughly Alpine regions, yet still, at this time of the year, the snow is deep and the frost is keen.

It were as well to keep awake.
As he paced up and down beneath the sheltering rock, when night had closed in, and the frosty stars were twinkling in the cold blue firmament, strange ghosts and fancies came crowding on him thick and fast.