Looking from the window again， in the vain hope ofdistinguishing the driver， I found my eyes were growingaccustomed to the darkness. I could see the distant horizon，defined by India-inky woods， relieving a lighter sky. Afew stars widely spaced in this picture glimmered sadly. Inoticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in theirserene faces； and I hope that the vandal who first applied theflippant “twinkle” to them may not be driven melancholymadby their reproachful eyes. I noticed again the mysticcharm of space that imparts a sense of individual solitudeto each integer of the densest constellation， involving thesmallest star with immeasurable loneliness. Something of thiscalm and solitude crept over me， and I dozed in my gloomycavern. When I awoke the full moon was rising. Seen from mywindow， it had an indescribably unreal and theatrical effect.
It was the full moon of NORMA—that remarkable celestialphenomenon which rises so palpably to a hushed audienceand a sublime andante chorus， until the CASTA DIVA issung—the “inconstant moon” that then and thereafter remainsfixed in the heavens as though it were a part of the solarsystem inaugurated by Joshua. Again the white-robed Druidsfiled past me， again I saw that improbable mistletoe cut fromthat impossible oak， and again cold chills ran down my backwith the first strain of the recitative. The thumping springsessayed to beat time， and the private-box-like obscurity of thevehicle lent a cheap enchantment to the view. But it was a vastimprovement upon my past experience， and I hugged the fonddelusion.
My fears for the driver were dissipated with the rising moon.
A familiar sound had assured me of his presence in the fullpossession of at least one of his most important functions.
Frequent and full expectoration convinced me that his lipswere as yet not sealed by the gag of highwaymen， and soothedmy anxious ear. With this load lifted from my mind， andassisted by the mild presence of Diana， who left， as when shevisited Endymion， much of her splendor outside my cavern—Ilooked around the empty vehicle. On the forward seat lay awoman’s hairpin. I picked it up with an interest that， however，soon abated. There was no scent of the roses to cling to itstill， not even of hair oil. No bend or twist in its rigid anglesbetrayed any trait of its wearer’s character. I tried to think thatit might have been “Mariar’s.” I tried to imagine that， confiningthe symmetrical curls of that girl， it might have heard the softcompliments whispered in her ears which provoked the wrathof the aged female. But in vain. It was reticent and unswervingin its upright fidelity， and at last slipped listlessly through myfingers.
I had dozed repeatedly—waked on the threshold of oblivionby contact with some of the angles of the coach， and feelingthat I was unconsciously assuming， in imitation of a humbleinsect of my childish recollection， that spherical shape whichcould best resist those impressions， when I perceived that themoon， riding high in the heavens， had begun to separate theformless masses of the shadowy landscape. Trees isolated， inclumps and assemblages， changed places before my window.
The sharp outlines of the distant hills came back， as indaylight， but little softened in the dry， cold， dewless air of aCalifornia summer night. I was wondering how late it was， andthinking that if the horses of the night traveled as slowly as theteam before us， Faustus might have been spared his agonizingprayer， when a sudden spasm of activity attacked my driver.
A succession of whip-snappings， like a pack of Chinesecrackers， broke from the box before me. The stage leapedforward， and when I could pick myself from under the seat， along white building had in some mysterious way rolled beforemy window. It must be Slumgullion！ As I descended from thestage I addressed the driver：
“I thought you changed horses on the road？”
“So we did. Two hours ago.”
“That’s odd. I didn’t notice it.”
“Must have been asleep， sir. Hope you had a pleasant nap.
Bully place for a nice quiet snooze—empty stage， sir！”
