There was a curious light in the western sky; a thick bank of clouds, dusky brown in color, were swept together and piled one above the other in mountainous ridges, that rose up perpendicularly from the very edge of the sea-line, while over their dark summits a glimpse of the sun, like a giant's eye, looked forth, darting dazzling descending rays through the sullen smoke-like masses, tinging them with metallic green and copper hues as brilliant and shifting as the bristling points of lifted spears.
Away to the south, a solitary wreath of purple vapor floated slowly as though lost from some great mountain height; and through its faint, half disguising veil the pale moon peered sorrowfully, like a dying prisoner lamenting joy long past, but unforgotten.
A solemn silence reigned; and Errington, watching sea and sky, grew more and more absorbed and serious.

The scornful words of the proud old Olaf Gueldmar rankled in his mind and stung him.

"An idle trifler with time--an aimless wanderer!" Bitter, but, after all, true! He looked back on his life with a feeling kin to contempt.

What had he done that was at all worth doing?
He had seen to the proper management of his estates,--well! any one with a grain of self-respect and love of independence would do the same.

He had travelled and amused himself,--he had studied languages and literature,--he had made many friends; but after all said and done, the _bonde's_ cutting observations had described him correctly enough.