The Purple Land: Being the Narrative of One Richard Lamb's Adventures in The Banda Orientál, in South America, as Told By HimselfHudson, W. H. (William Henry)
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The Purple Land: Being the Narrative of One Richard Lamb's Adventures in The Banda Orientál, in South America, as Told By Himself
Hudson, W. H. (William Henry)
Adventure stories; British -- Uruguay -- Fiction; Uruguay -- Fiction
The old, half-ruined house in the midst of the dusky desolation began
to assume in the moonlight a singularly weird and ghost-like appearance.
Near me on one side was an irregular row of poplar-trees, and the long,
dark lines cast from them by the moon fell across a wide, open space
where the rank-growing thorn-apples predominated. In the spaces between
the broad bands made by the poplar-tree shadows, the foliage appeared
of a dim, hoary blue, starred over with the white blossoms of this
night-flowering weed. About these flowers several big, grey moths were
hovering, suddenly appearing out of the black shadows and when looked
for, noiselessly vanishing again in their mysterious ghost-like manner.
Not a sound disturbed the silence except the faint, melancholy trill
of one small night-singing cicada from somewhere near--a faint, aerial
voice that seemed to be wandering lost in infinite space, rising and
floating away in its loneliness, while earth listened, hushed into
preternatural stillness. Presently a large owl came noiselessly flying
by, and, perching on the topmost boughs of a neighbouring tree, began
hooting a succession of monotonous notes, sounding like the baying of a
bloodhound at a vast distance. Another owl by and by responded from
some far-off quarter, and the dreary duet was kept up for half an hour.
Whenever one bird ceased his solemn _boo-boo-boo-boo-boo_, I found
myself with stilled breath straining my sense to catch the answering
notes, fearing to stir lest I should lose them. A phosphorescent gleam
swept by close to my face, making me start at its sudden appearance,
then passed away, trailing a line of faint light over the dusky weeds.
The passing firefly served to remind me that I was not smoking, and the
thought then occurred to me that a cigar might possibly have the effect
of relieving me from the strange, indefinable feeling of depression that
had come over me. I put my hand into my pocket and drew out a cigar,
and bit the end off; but when about to strike a vesta on my matchbox, I
shuddered and dropped my hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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