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The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to

the water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris,

where the picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone

bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking

like a dead face out of the sky. Then, the night, with the moon

and the stars, turned pale and died, and for a little while it

seemed as if Creation were delivered over to Death's dominion.

But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that

burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long

bright rays. And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes,

a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the

sun, while the river sparkled under it.