on the mountain, and on the vast, dreary plain beyond--stands out white
and pale against the dark, blue clouds, which stretch across the heavens,
and assume a violent tint towards the horizon. There, where the setting
sun has left a long track of lurid light, almost of the hue of blood--as
far as the eye can reach, no vegetation appears on the surface of the
gloomy desert, covered with sand and stones, like the ancient bed of some
dried-up ocean. A silence as of death broods over this desolate tract.
Sometimes, gigantic black vultures, with red unfeathered necks, luminous
yellow eyes, stooping from their lofty flight in the midst of these
solitudes, come to make their bloody feast on the prey they have carried
off from less uncultivated regions.

How, then, did this Calvary, this place of prayer, come to be erected so
far from the abodes of men? This Calvary was prepared at a great cost by
a repentant sinner. He had done much harm to his fellow-creatures, and,
in the hope of obtaining pardon for his crimes, he had climbed this
mountain on his knees, and become a hermit, and lived there till his
death, at the foot of this cross, only sheltered by a roof of thatch, now
long since swept away by the wind. The sun is still sinking. The sky
becomes darker. The luminous lines on the horizon grow fainter and
fainter, like heated bars of iron that gradually grow cool. Suddenly, on
the eastern side of the Calvary, is heard the noise of some falling
stones, which, loosened from the side of the mountain, roll down
rebounding to its base. These stones have been loosened by the foot of a
traveller, who, after traversing the plain below, has, during the last
hour, been climbing the steep ascent. He is not yet visible--but one
hears the echo of his tread--slow, steady, and firm. At length, he
reaches the top of the mountain, and his tall figure stands out against
the stormy sky.