The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, ‘mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior
Saturday, February 28th, 2009We begin on a dark and stormy lights-out; the monsoon fell in torrents, except at occasional seconds when it was checked by a fierce gust of wind which swept up the boulevard (for it is in Schumacher that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely throw offing the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.
