noon
Whenever I look back , before the illness of which I will presently speak , the image of Louis Grayle returns to me . I see myself with him in African wilds , commanding the fierce Abyssinians . I see myself with him in the fair Persian valley,-lofty , snow-covered mountains encircling the garden of roses . I see myself with him in the hush of the golden noon , reclined by the spray of cool fountains , -- now listening to cymbals and lutes , now arguing with graybeards on secrets bequeathed by the Chaldees , -- with him , with him in moonlit nights , stealing into the sepulchres of mythical kings . I see myself with him in the aisles of dark caverns , surrounded by awful shapes , which have no likeness amongst the creatures of earth . Louis Grayle ! Louis Grayle !