The sunset glory deepened.  For a few seconds the crags above them glittered golden as the peaks of Paradise.  And in the wonderful silence Muriel spoke.

“Do you see them?” she said.

He saw that her eyes were turned upon the shining mountains.  There was a strange light on her face.

“See what, darling?” he asked her softly.

Her eyes came back to him for a moment.  They had a thoughtful, wondering look.

“How strange!” she said slowly.  “I thought it was—­an eagle.”

The detachment of her tone cut him to the heart.  And suddenly the pain of it was more than he could bear.

“It is I—­Nick,” he told her, with urgent emphasis.  “Surely you know me!”

But her eyes had passed beyond him again.  “Nick?” she questioned to herself.  “Nick?  But this—­this was an eagle.”

She was drawing away from him, and he could not hold her, could not even hope to follow her whither she went.  A great sob broke from him, and in a moment, like the rush of an overwhelming flood from behind gates long closed, the anguish of the man burst its bonds.

“Muriel!” he cried passionately.  “Muriel!  Stay with me, look at me, love me!  There is nothing in the mountains to draw you.  It is here—­here beside you, touching you, holding you.  O God,” he prayed brokenly, “she doesn’t understand me.  Let her understand,—­open her eyes,—­make her see!”

His agony reached her, touched her, for a moment held her.  She turned her eyes back to his tortured face.

“But, Nick,” she said softly, “I can see.”

He bent lower.  “Yes?” he said, in a choked voice.  “Yes?”

She regarded him with a faint wonder.  Her eyes were growing heavy, as the eyes of a tired child.  She raised one hand and pointed vaguely.

“Over there,” she said wearily.  “Can’t you see them?  Then perhaps it was a dream, or even—­perhaps—­a vision.  Don’t you remember how it went?  ’And behold—­the mountain—­was full—­of horses—­and chariots—­of—­fire!’ God sent them, you know.”

The tired voice ceased.  Her head sank lower upon Nick’s breast.  She gave a little quivering sigh, and seemed to sleep.

And Nick turned his tortured eyes upon the pass below him, and stared downwards spellbound.

Was he dreaming also?  Or was it perchance a vision—­the trick of his fevered fancy?  There, at his feet, not fifty yards from where he sat, he beheld men, horses, guns, winding along in a narrow, unbroken line as far as he could see.

A great surging filled his ears, and through it he heard himself shout once, twice, and yet a third time to the phantom army below.

The surging swelled in his brain to a terrific tumult—­a confusion indescribable.  And then something seemed to crack inside his head.  The dark peaks swayed giddily against the darkening sky, and toppled inwards without sound.

The last thing he knew was the call of a bugle, tense and shrill as the buzz of a mosquito close to his ear.  And he laughed aloud to think how so small a thing had managed to deceive him.