A great cry of pain rose from his heart and died to a whisper on his lips; he was awed into silence.

Sinking down upon the grass again, he hid his face against the rosy-breasted bird and began to sob.

How warm the dead bird felt against his cheek--oh, so warm--and it could not live and fly about with the others.
At length he sat up and knew the reason of that change that had come over the earth.

A dark cloud had sprung up in the south-west, far off as yet, and near the horizon; but its fringe already touched and obscured the low-hanging sun, and a shadow flew far and vast before it.

Over the lake flew that great shadow: the waters looked cold and still, reflecting as in a polished glass the motionless rushes, the glassy bank, and Martin, sitting on it, still clasping in his arms the dead rose-coloured bird.
Swifter and vaster, following close upon the flying shadow, came the mighty cloud, changing from black to slaty grey; and then, as the sun broke forth again under its lower edge, it was all flushed with a brilliant rose colour.