Light fleecy clouds were driving
before the moon, which was cold and watery though there were moments,
when its placid rays were shed from clear blue fields, seeming to
soften objects to its own mild loveliness.
For the first time, in a life of so much wild adventure, Ishmael felt
a keen sense of solitude. The naked prairies began to assume the forms
of illimitable and dreary wastes and the rushing of the wind sounded
like the whisperings of the dead. It was not long before he thought a
shriek was borne past him on a blast. It did not sound like a call
from earth but it swept frightfully through the upper air mingled with
the hoarse accompaniment of the wind. The teeth of the squatter were
compressed, and his huge hand grasped the rifle, as if it would crush
the metal. Then came a lull, a fresher blast, and a cry of horror that
seemed to have been uttered at the very portals of his ears. A sort of
echo burst involuntarily from his own lips, as men shout under
unnatural excitement, and throwing his rifle across his shoulder he
proceeded towards the rock with the strides of a giant.
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