Round and above and behind, beneath the long flat arch of the storm, glowed a furnace of scarlet light.

The buildings of the city were faint specks within its fierce intensity, dimly visible through a sea of fire.

St.Peter's alone, without visible foundation or support, had consistence, form, identity .-- And between the city and the hills, waves of blue and purple shade, forerunners of the night, stole over the Campagna towards the higher ground.

But the hills themselves were still shining, still clad in rose and amethyst, caught in gentler repetition from the wildness of the west.

Pale rose even the olive-gardens; rose the rich brown fallows, the emerging farms; while drawn across the Campagna from north to south, as though some mighty brush had just laid it there for sheer lust of colour, sheer joy in the mating it with the rose,--one long strip of sharpest, purest green.
Mrs.Burgoyne turned at last from the great spectacle to her companion.
'One has really no adjectives left,' she said.