AT THE GRAY OF DAWN It was very quiet in the wood by the river.

A late moon swung its golden censer above the water by invisible chains, marking checkered aisles of light in the silent wood, burnishing elfin rosaries of dew, touching with cool, white fingers of benediction the leaf-cowled heads of stately trees.

Like lines of solemn monks they stood listening raptly to the deep, full chant of the moving river.

The sylvan mass of the night was a thing of infinite peace and mystery, of silence and solemnity.
Into the hush of the moonlit night came presently a jarring note, the infernal racket of a motorcycle.

Philip, a lone sentry by the camp of his lady, stirred and frowned.