" Pa combine,
chè!"
397
through vapor of gold. . . . Such the colors of the carangue, when the beautiful tropic fish is turned in the light, and its gem-greens shift to rich azure and prismpurple. Reclining in our chairs, we watched the strange splendor from the veranda of the little cottage,— saw the peaked land slowly steep itself in the aureate glow,— the changing color of the verdured mornes, and of the sweep of circling sea. Tiny birds, bosomed with fire, were shooting by in long curves, like embers flung by invisible hands. From far below, the murmur of the city rose to us,—a stormy hum. So motionless we remained that the green and gray lizards were putting out their heads from behind the columns of the veranda to stare at us, — as if wondering whether we were really alive. I turned my head suddenly to look at two queer butterflies ; and all the lizards hid themselves again. Papilton-lanmb,—Death's butterflies,—these were called in the speech of the people : their broad wings were black like blackest v e l v e t ; — a s they fluttered against the yellow light, they looked like silhouettes of butterflies. Always through my memory of that wondrous evening,—when I little thought I was seeing my friend's face for the last time,—there slowly passes the black palpitation of those wings. . . . . . . I had been chatting with Felicien about various things which I thought might have a cheerful interest for him ; and more than once I had been happy to see him smile. . . . But our converse waned. The ever-magnifying splendor before us had been mesmerizing our senses,—slowly overpowering our wills with the amazement of its beauty. Then, as the sun's d i s k — e n o r mous,—blinding gold—touched the lilac flood, and the stupendous orange glow flamed up to the very zenith, we found ourselves awed at last into silence. The orange in the west deepened into vermilion.