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"You know a lot about Switzerland, don't you?" he observed, as the stranger, still pointing with his stick and naming names the Silberhorn, the Gletschhorn, the Schneehorn, the Niesen, the Bettfluh that impressed the imagination with the force of the great white peaks themselves, resolved the panorama into its minor elements. The stick came down and the explanation ceased.
Its peaks lay in every imaginable shape, twisted, coiled, convoluted against the horizon-bar, now running up into a perfect cone, like the Silberhorn of Switzerland, now elongating in rippling lines along the east, now staining the sky with deep-blue masses of ultramarine flecked with pearly lines.
The light of morning flowed down in an ever-broadening river, and peak after peak flashed first into rose, then into crimson, and then into golden light, as the sun fell on their fields of snow; high overhead rose Alp after Alp of snow-white and luminous cloud, but the flowing curves of the hills themselves stood unveiled, with their crests cut clearly on the pale, divine, lustrous blue of heaven, and our happy band of travellers gazed untired on that glorious panorama of glistering heights from the towering cones of the Eiger and the Moench to the crowding precipices of the Ebenen-fluen and the Silberhorn.
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