The full moon was beyond the clouds, and whatever wave of light came from declining day or rising night was held in by, and reflected softly from, the storm of pearl.

After some debate he turned back to the lake and his former road.

It must lead somewhere; he pressed steadily on toward the western end of the lake.
The western shore was level; he hardly knew when he was upon the land.
The glimmering night blinded the traveller; no ray of candle light was in sight.

He began to think that he was destined to see his horse slowly buried, and himself to fight, as long as might be, a losing battle with the fiends of the air.
At last the plodding pony stopped again resolutely.

Long lines of Lombardy poplars here met the road.