A stiffening of my neck made me aware that I had been continually looking up at the looming arch.  I found that it never seemed the same any two moments.  Near at hand it was too vast a thing for immediate comprehension.  I wanted to ponder on what had formed it—­to reflect upon its meaning as to age and force of nature.  Yet it seemed that all I could do was to see.  White stars hung along the dark curved line.  The rim of the arch appeared to shine.  The moon was up there somewhere.  The far side of the canyon was now a blank black wall.  Over its towering rim showed a pale glow.  It brightened.  The shades in the canyon lightened, then a white disk of moon peeped over the dark line.  The bridge turned to silver.

It was then that I became aware of the presence of Nas ta Bega.  Dark, silent, statuesque, with inscrutable face uplifted, with all that was spiritual of the Indian suggested by a somber and tranquil knowledge of his place there, he represented to me that which a solitary figure of human life represents in a great painting.  Nonnezoshe needed life, wild life, life of its millions of years—­and here stood the dark and silent Indian.

Long afterward I walked there alone, to and fro, under the bridge.  The moon had long since crossed the streak of star-fired blue above, and the canyon was black in shadow.  At times a current of wind, with all the strangeness of that strange country in its moan, rushed through the great stone arch.  At other times there was silence such as I imagined might have dwelt deep in the center of the earth.  And again an owl hooted, and the sound was nameless.  It had a mocking echo.  An echo of night, silence, gloom, melancholy, death, age, eternity!

The Indian lay asleep with his dark face upturned, and the other sleepers lay calm and white in the starlight.  I seemed to see in them the meaning of life and the past—­the illimitable train of faces that had shone under the stars.  There was something nameless in that canyon, and whether or not it was what the Indian embodied in the great Nonnezoshe, or the life of the present, or the death of the ages, or the nature so magnificently manifested in those silent, dreaming, waiting walls—­the truth was that there was a spirit.

I did sleep a few hours under Nonnezoshe, and when I awoke the tip of the arch was losing its cold darkness and beginning to shine.  The sun had just risen high enough over some low break in the wall to reach the bridge.  I watched.  Slowly, in wondrous transformation, the gold and blue and rose and pink and purple blended their hues, softly, mistily, cloudily, until once more the arch was a rainbow.

I realized that long before life had evolved upon the earth this bridge had spread its grand arch from wall to wall, black and mystic at night, transparent and rosy in the sunrise, at sunset a flaming curve limned against the heavens.  When the race of man had passed it would, perhaps, stand there still.  It was not for many eyes to see.  The tourist, the leisurely traveler, the comfort-loving motorist would never behold it.  Only by toil, sweat, endurance and pain could any man ever look at Nonnezoshe.  It seemed well to realize that the great things of life had to be earned.  Nonnezoshe would always be alone, grand, silent, beautiful, unintelligible; and as such I bade it a mute, reverent farewell.