{"product_id":"2940012784926","title":"THE HOUR WILL COME BY Volume I","description":"PROLOGUE.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e                     ST. VALENTINE'S ON THE HEATH.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe heath or moorland plateau of Mals lies wide--spread, silent, and\u003cbr\u003edeserted where the lofty head of the Grossortler towers up, and\u003cbr\u003eoverlooks it in eternal calm. It is five centuries ago--a mere moment\u003cbr\u003ein that world of everlasting snows; the keen autumn wind, as at this\u003cbr\u003eday, is rushing through the grey halms of the charlock, woodrush and\u003cbr\u003eheathgrasses, that have caught a doubtful, golden gleam reflected from\u003cbr\u003ethe glaciers which are bathed in the glow of the sinking sun; as at\u003cbr\u003ethis day, the gale packs the driving white clouds together in the still\u003cbr\u003ehighland valley, as though to rest for the night. They heave and roll\u003cbr\u003enoiselessly, spreading a white, misty sheet over the withered\u003cbr\u003eheathgrass. The mirror-surface of the moorland tarn lies lead-coloured\u003cbr\u003eand dull, wrinkled by the night-breeze, and its icy waters trickle in\u003cbr\u003etiny rills over the bare plain and down to the valley. All is the same\u003cbr\u003eas it is to this day! Only life is wanting, life warm and busy, which\u003cbr\u003ein these days is stirring in the villages and homesteads that dot the\u003cbr\u003eplain, and that have brought the dead moorland into tilth and\u003cbr\u003efertility. Profound silence reigns over the immeasurable level,\u003cbr\u003ethroughout its length and breadth no living thing stirs; it is as if\u003cbr\u003ethis were indeed the neutral space between Heaven and Hell--a vast,\u003cbr\u003eeternal void! Only the monotonous murmur of the Etsch--that cold artery\u003cbr\u003eof the desolate heath--and the roar of the winds that sweep at night\u003cbr\u003eacross the plateau; these are the eerie voices of this realm of death.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWoe to the lonely pilgrim who is wandering through the night in this\u003cbr\u003eboundless desert, in storm and snow, in impenetrable darkness; he is\u003cbr\u003elost in nothingness, owned by neither Heaven nor Hell, and the earth\u003cbr\u003eknows him not! No ear can hear his cry for help, it is lost in vacancy;\u003cbr\u003ethe raven and the wolf mark him down, but they tell no one of their\u003cbr\u003emute prey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is true that pitying love has penetrated even to this wilderness and\u003cbr\u003erealm of death, and spreads her arms so far as they may reach; but they\u003cbr\u003eare but human arms, weak and inadequate for the great divine mind that\u003cbr\u003eanimates them. Every evening, above the howling of the storm and the\u003cbr\u003eroaring of the highland lake, as dusk creeps on, the Vesper bell rings\u003cbr\u003esoftly out like the beat of some metallic heart. Then a dull-red,\u003cbr\u003eflaring blaze is suddenly seen, which parts into wandering storm-blown\u003cbr\u003eflakes of flame that disperse themselves about the moor till they\u003cbr\u003evanish in the mist and darkness. The shepherd and lay-brethren it is,\u003cbr\u003ewho go forth with torches and biers from the Hospice of Saint Valentine\u003cbr\u003ein the moor, which pious faith has erected for the lost traveller here\u003cbr\u003ein the wilderness. Defying the warring elements, they seek in silent\u003cbr\u003eand fearless devotion the strayed, the perishing, and the hungry, and\u003cbr\u003ebring them in to the warm hearth of humanity. Happy is he whom they\u003cbr\u003efind, he is rescued--but the moor is wide, and they are but a forlorn\u003cbr\u003elittle handful of men, not all-knowing nor all-seeing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sun went down early in angry red; it grows darker and darker. Heavy\u003cbr\u003eclouds are packed over the evening sky, the last glimmer of starlight\u003cbr\u003eis extinguished, all is as dark as though no light survived in Heaven\u003cbr\u003eor earth; for a moment even the howling, shrieking winds are silent,\u003cbr\u003ewhich nightly carry on their demon-dance round and across the heath;\u003cbr\u003ebut from the distance looms a nameless, formless something, a thunder\u003cbr\u003eroll is heard, soft at first like the sound of slow, heavy wheels, then\u003cbr\u003enearer and nearer--a terror, invisible, intangible but crushing, shakes\u003cbr\u003ethe earth to its foundation. Slowly it surges on, like a deep groan of\u003cbr\u003erage long controlled only to break out all the more fearfully in\u003cbr\u003eraving, annihilating fury. The snow-storm, the first of the year,\u003cbr\u003esweeps down from the Grossortler over the bare trembling heath--a\u003cbr\u003emighty, moving mass rolls on before it that breaks incessantly into\u003cbr\u003epowder, and is incessantly renewed--as if the winds had torn the\u003cbr\u003eeternal mantle of snow from the shoulders of the numberless glaciers,\u003cbr\u003eand were flinging it down from the heights. A giant wall reaches from\u003cbr\u003eearth to sky; snow, snow everywhere. Touched by the icy breath, the\u003cbr\u003eshapeless mists over lake and river curdle and turn to snow, the light\u003cbr\u003eevening-clouds form compact masses of snow--whirling pillars that bury\u003cbr\u003eeverything in their wild dance; the very air is turned to snow, there\u003cbr\u003eis no tiniest space between sky and earth that is not filled with snow.\u003cbr\u003eThe whole moor is overwhelmed in it, and is one vast, white bed, where\u003cbr\u003ethe storm and night may work their wild will.","brand":"SAP","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47081665298672,"sku":"2940012784926","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940012784926","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}