Our shadows stretched behind us across the level terrace, like the shadows of giants.

Involuntarily, we dropped our voices.

It would have seemed almost like profanity to speak aloud while the first influence of that scene was upon us.
Going on presently towards the verge of the terrace, we came upon an artist who, with his camp-stool under his arm, and his portfolio at his feet, was, like ourselves, taking a last look at the sunset before going away.

As we approached, he turned and recognised us.

It was Herr Franz Mueller, the story-telling student of the _Chicards_ club.
"Good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he, lifting his red cap, and letting it fall back again a little on one side.