Ethel Lillian Voynich. The gadfly (№ 15051)

Arthur knelt down and bent over the edge of a precipice. Huge pine trees, shrouded in the evening dusk, stood like sentinels along the narrow river banks. A minute passed - the sun, red as a glowing coal, dipped behind a jagged rock, and all around went out. Something dark, menacing loomed over the valley. Cliffs in the West, protruded into the sky like a Fang of some monstrous beast, which here-here will rush on its prey and carried it down to resvertol mouth of the abyss, where the forest muffled moaning in the wind. Tall pine trees with a sharp knife rose up to the sky, whispering almost inaudibly: "Fall on us!". Mountain stream seethed and bubbled in the dark, in inescapable despair, rushing to the stone walls of his prison.
- Padre! Arthur stood up, startled, recoiled from the abyss. - It's like hell!
- No, my son, - said softly she spoke, is like a human soul.
- On the souls of those who are wandering in darkness and death, who strikes with his wing?
- On the souls of those whom you daily meet on the streets.