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Excerpt from The Fair Irish Maid
Slowly, steadily, surely, the gloom deepened. It could not be said to darken, because it was so steadily white, but the blackest night that ever brooded over a sleeping world could not have been more triumphant in its obliteration of the things that mean life to the living. Here was one of Na ture's conquests, one of her assertions of her final supremacy over the pride and the desire of man. In the awe of its quietude, in the hush Of its cer tainty, it seemed to envelop and control the earth with the finality of the Dusk of Gods. Surely it would seem that when that veil lifted, if ever it did lift, it would reveal nothing better than a world re turned to the tragedy of the arctic past. Kingdoms and civilizations, imperial cities, and thrifty villages must surely be reduced, one and all, to a little glacial dust; nothing remaining of all the pomp and luxury and ardor and hot blood but a frozen sea shuddering against a frozen land, the sea and the land alike no more than the cemetery of the ages, the grave of the tale of man.
The mist was the most ruthless of conquerors. It seemed to annihilate the body, it seemed to dissi pate the soul. Its chill impenetrability was more triumphant than any swords that could Slay the ¿esh, than any words that could kill the mind.
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