Always, when he was moved, David turned to his violin.

Always in its quivering strings he found the means to say that which his tongue could not express.
Across the valley the grays and blues of the mountains had become all purples now.

Above, the sky in one vast flame of crimson and gold, was a molten sea on which floated rose-pink cloud-boats.

Below, the valley with its lake and river picked out in rose and gold against the shadowy greens of field and forest, seemed like some enchanted fairyland of loveliness.
And all this was in David's violin, and all this, too, was on David's uplifted, rapturous face.
As the last rose-glow turned to gray and the last strain quivered into silence, the man spoke.

His voice was almost harsh with self-control.
"David, the time has come.