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No voice answered us.
[1] Phosphorescence.

CHAPTER XIII.

HOW, WITHOUT FIGHTING, OUR ARMY WASTED BY ENCHANTMENT.

"ADRIAN. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. . . .
GONZALO. Here is everything advantageous to life.
ANTONIO. True: save means to live."
"CALIBAN. Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt
not."
_The Tempest_.
Upon a sudden thought my father hurried us towards the tall belfry.
It rose cold and white against the moon, at the end of a nettle-grown
lane. A garth of ilex-oaks surrounded it; and beside it, more than
half-hidden by the untrimmed trees, stood a ridiculously squat
church. By instinct, or, rather, from association of ideas learnt in
England, I glanced around this churchyard for its gravestones.
There were none. Yet for the second time within these few hours I
was strangely reminded of home, where in an upper garret were stacked
half a dozen age-begrimed paintings on panel, one of which on an idle
day two years ago I had taken a fancy to scour with soap and water.


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