All was gray--the parks, the glades--and deeper, darker gray marked the aisles of the forest.

Shadows lurked under the trees and the silence seemed consistent with spectral forms.

Then the east kindled, the gray lightened, the dreaming woodland awoke to the far-reaching rays of a bursting red sun.
This was always the happiest moment of Dale's lonely days, as sunset was his saddest.

He responded, and there was something in his blood that answered the whistle of a stag from a near-by ridge.

His strides were long, noiseless, and they left dark trace where his feet brushed the dew-laden grass.
Dale pursued a zigzag course over the ridges to escape the hardest climbing, but the "senacas"-- those parklike meadows so named by Mexican sheep-herders--were as round and level as if they had been made by man in beautiful contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges.