Excerpt from The Festival of Mora, Vol. 4: An Historical Romance
It was cold and bleak, and as the sha dows thickened, the beacon-light bright ened in the watch-tower of the castle: no moon lent her mild’ ray; no star twinkled in the vast profound; the blast moaned through the pine forests, and the hoar frost crackled under their tread. The different bands, separated by policy, met at a given signal; yet not a voice reached louder than a whisper – it was as a maiden enterprise – it was the first blood devoted to the cause of freedom.
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