From the book：The sun is fast sinking． In the depths of an immense piny wood， in the midst of profound solitude， rise the ruins of an abbey， once sacred to St． John the Baptist． Ivy， moss， and creeping plants， almost entirely conceal the stones， now black with age． Some broken arches， some walls pierced with ovals， still remain standing， visible on the dark background of the thick wood． Looking down upon this mass of ruins from a broken pedestal， half-covered with ivy， a mutilated， but colossal statue of stone still keeps its place． This statue is strange and awful． It represents a headless human figure． Clad in the antique toga， it holds in its hand a dish and on that dish is a head． This head is its own． It is the statue of St． John the Baptist and Martyr， put to death by wish of Herodias． The silence around is solemn． From time to time， however， is heard the dull rustling of the enormous branches of the pine-trees， shaken by the wind． Copper-colored clouds， reddened by the setting sun， pass slowly over the forest， and are reflected in the current of a brook， which， deriving its source from a neighboring mass of rocks， flows through the ruins． The water flows， the clouds pass on， the ancient trees tremble， the breeze murmurs．
The sun is fast sinking． In the depths of an immense piny wood， in the midst of profound solitude， rise the ruins of an abbey， once sacred to St． John the Baptist． Ivy， moss， and creeping plants， almost entirely conceal the stones， now black with age． Some broken arches， some walls pierced with ovals， still remain standing， visible on the dark background of the thick wood． Looking down upon this mass of ruins from a broken pedestal， half-covered with ivy， a mutilated， but colossal statue of stone still keeps its place． This statue is strange and awful． It represents a headless human figure． Clad in the antique toga， it holds in its hand a dish and on that dish is a head． This head is its own． It is the statue of St． John the Baptist and Martyr， put to death by wish of Herodias． The silence around is solemn． From time to time， however， is heard the dull rustling of the enormous branches of the pine-trees， shaken by the wind． Copper-colored clouds， reddened by the setting sun， pass slowly over the forest， and are reflected in the current of a brook， which， deriving its source from a neighboring mass of rocks， flows through the ruins． The water flows， the clouds pass on， the ancient trees tremble， the breeze murmurs．
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