Sevastopol

The flush o of morning has but just begun to tin­ge the sky above Sapun Mountain; the dark blue surface of the sea has already cast aside the shades of night and awaits the first ray to begin a play of merry gleams; cold and mist are wafted from the bay; there is no snow—all is black, but the mor­ning frost pinches the face and crackles underfoot, and the far-off, unceasing roar of the sea, broken now and then by the thunder of the firing in Sevas­topol, alone disturbs the calm of the morning. It is dark on board the ships; it has just struck eight bells.