CHAPTER VI. THE SEXTON’S COTTAGE
We had been for some time walking over a rocky moorland covered with dry plants and mosses, when I descried a little cottage in the farthest distance. The sun was not yet down, but he was wrapt in a gray cloud. The heath looked as if it had never been warm, and the wind blew strangely cold, as if from some region where it was always night.
“ Here we are at last!” said the raven. “What a long way it is! In half the time I could have gone to Paradise and seen my cousin—him, you remember, who never came back to Noah! Dear! dear! it is almost winter!”
“ Winter!” I cried; “it seems but half a day since we left home!”
“ That is because we have travelled so fast,” answered the raven. “In your world you cannot pull up the plumb-line you call gravitation, a
