They silently crept close to the rock. Out of the dusk, less black because of the reflecting snow, appeared long shadows, stalking some prey, advancing slowly, slowly, pressed close to the ground, and sometimes completely vanishing—swallowed up, as it were, by the earth; their eyes alone shining greenly phosphorescent, like glow-worms in a copse. The creatures were about forty yards away, but soon farther, disappearing into the darkness.... And then, all at once, came the throttled scream of a hare in mortal jeopardy ... a scraping and a scuffling of feet ... a rattle and a snarl, the sound of crunched bones, a fierce growling; and then once more silence, deep and dreadful, prevailed all around. “Wolves.—Tearing a hare piecemeal.” “If they had scented us!” “They could not: the wind blows towards us.” “I am afraid. Let us go. I feel cold as ice,” she said with a shudder. He took her in his arms. She warmed to his kisses, and oblivion of all things came over them once more. With one arm tight round the other’s waist, they both went along their straggling way, swinging and bending to and fro, as trees do, when, too heavily laden with blossoms, they wave restfully to the gentle hum of bees. They spoke rarely; but their kisses and sighs and passionate ejaculations, their low blissful murmurs and rapturous heart-beats, vibrated above them and around, as the warm air trembles and quivers over a field in springtime. For now they were like those vast plains all in flower, plunged in the radiance and harmony of joy; thus did they glow, with eyes like opening buds; thus did their souls echo back the hot perfumes of meadows basking in the sunbeams, the shimmering of brooks, the low faint twittering of birds. Their beating hearts were in unison with those springtide regions; and the words they uttered—few, full of meaning, and scarce audible—welled forth from their innermost souls, as young shoots burst from the parent tree at the dawn of a May morning; their breaths were like the zephyrs that fondle the sprouting corn, and their souls like a day in the spring season—sunny as the rising blades of wheat, and not less full of the songs of larks, of brightness, of whispering, of dazzling virescence, and the irresistible gladness of life! Then again they grew silent and stopped short, seized with awe of something they knew not what, which was about to be: as when a cloud floats over the sun, and the world at once waxes still and sad, and darkens with uneasy misgiving. But they soon shook off this mood, and joy again burst out in their bosoms with a great conflagration; glee once more swept the chords of their hearts, and now they were flying up with bliss, compelled to soar.—And, all unwittingly, they burst out into passionate and delirious song. They swayed to the rhythm of their voices, which rose as on many-coloured pinions, and sped through the dead stillness of the night in a star-seeking, fiery rush.