Beneath us the brown Napo River was rising, in all silence; it coiled up the sandy bank and tangled its foam in vines that trailed from the forest and roots that looped the shore.
It was during these moments of deep silence that the canvas which concealed the entrance to a spacious marquee in the French encampment was shoved aside, and a man issued from beneath the drapery into the open air.
On a summer evening, after a long walk in very hot weather, he lay down upon the sofa in his study, and there — as his calm face declared — passed from slumber into the great silence.