At the doors of the palace Michel met Magnani, who was also going away. But, after walking a few steps, the two young men, revived by the morning air, determined, instead of going to bed, to skirt the hill and watch the rising of the sun, which was just beginning to whiten the sides of Ætna. They paused on a small hill, about the half height of Ætna itself, and seated themselves on a picturesque spot, having at their right the Villa Palmarosa, still gleaming with light and echoing with the strains of the orchestra; on their left the towering cone of the volcano, with the vast slopes forming an amphitheatre of verdure, rocks and snow to the summit. It was a strange and superb spectacle. Everything was ill-defined in that boundless expanse, and the _piedimonta_ could hardly be distinguished from the upper belt, called _nemorosa_ or _silvosa_. But while the dawn, reflected in the sea, suffused the lower portion of the picture with a pale, vague light, the bold, jagged edges and immaculate snow of the peak were sharply outlined against the transparent atmosphere of the night, which was still a deep blue and studded with stars about the giant's head. The sublime tranquillity, the imposing serenity of the towering peaks, presented a marked contrast to the commotion all about the palace. The music, the shouts of the servants, the rumbling of the carriages, seemed, in the presence of placid, silent Ætna, a satirical epitome of human life as compared with the mysterious abyss of eternity. As the light grew stronger the peaks became less distinct, and the gorgeous streamer of reddish smoke that had cut the deep blue sky became blue itself, and wound upward like an azure serpent against an opal background.