KEATS.




CHAPTER I.

THE MONASTERY.


Deep in the heart of the Caucasus mountains a wild storm was
gathering. Drear shadows drooped and thickened above the Pass of
Dariel,--that terrific gorge which like a mere thread seems to
hang between the toppling frost-bound heights above and the black
abysmal depths below,--clouds, fringed ominously with lurid green
and white, drifted heavily yet swiftly across the jagged peaks
where, looming largely out of the mist, the snow-capped crest of
Mount Kazbek rose coldly white against the darkness of the
threatening sky. Night was approaching, though away to the west a
road gash of crimson, a seeming wound in the breast of heaven,
showed where the sun had set an hour since. Now and again the
rising wind moaned sobbingly through the tall and spectral pines
that, with knotted roots fast clenched in the reluctant earth,
clung tenaciously to their stony vantageground; and mingling with
its wailing murmur, there came a distant hoarse roaring as of
tumbling torrents, while at far-off intervals could be heard the
sweeping thud of an avalanche slipping from point to point on its
disastrous downward way. Through the wreathing vapors the steep,
bare sides of the near mountains were pallidly visible, their icy