Explore "The Tiger-Slayer" by Gustave Aimard on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Nothing is so mournful as a night march through the desert, especially under such circumstances as hurried our party on. Night is the mother of phantoms; in the darkness, the gayest landscapes become sinister -- everything assumes a form to startle the traveller. The moon, however brilliant the light it diffuses may be, imparts to objects a fantastic appearance and mournful hues which cause the bravest to tremble.
This sepulchral calmness of the desert -- this solitude that surrounds you, torments you from every side, and peoples the scenery with spectres -- this obscurity which enfolds you like a leaden shroud -- all combine to trouble the brain, and arouse a species of febrile terror, which the vivifying sunbeams are alone powerful enough to dissipate.