He saw the darkening rims, the gray oval turning black, the undulating surface of forest, like a rippling lake, and the spear-pointed spruces.

He heard the flutter of aspen leaves and the soft, continuous splash of falling water.

The melancholy note of a canyon bird broke clear and lonely from the high cliffs.

Venters had no name for this night singer, and he had never seen one, but the few notes, always pealing out just at darkness, were as familiar to him as the canyon silence.

Then they ceased, and the rustle of leaves and the murmur of water hushed in a growing sound that Venters fancied was not of earth.