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With them, its stillness seemed almost
ineffably profound. The hint of life bound in the cores of sleep,
prisoner to rest, deepened Nature's impression and sent Vere into
reverie. There were no trees here. No birds sang, for although it was
the month of the nightingales, none ever came to sing to San
Francesco. No insects chirped or hummed. All was stark and almost
fearfully still as in a world abandoned; and the light fell on the old
faces of the rocks faintly, as if it feared to show the ravages made
in them by the storms of the long ages they had confronted and defied.
Vere had a sensation of sinking very slowly down into a gulf, as she
stood there, not falling, but sinking, down into some world of quiet
things, farther and farther down, leaving all the sounds of life far
up in light above her. And descent was exquisite, easy and natural,
and, indeed, inevitable. Nothing called her from below. For where she
was going there were no voices. Yet she felt that at last there would
be something to receive her; mystical stillness, mystical peace.


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