Night and darkness and loneliness held sway, and in one heart the
shadows of the world were gathered.
What was the meaning of this Life whose gift was Pain, where was the
glory of existence?
By the window to the east Maren Le Moyne stood in the darkness, with
her hands upon her breast and her face set after the manner of the
dreamer who follows his visions in simpleness of soul.
Once again a great call was sounding from the wilderness, as that which
lured her to the Whispering Hills had sounded since she could remember,
once more the Long Trail beckoned, and once more she answered, simply
and without fear.
She waited for the depth of night.
Long she stood at the little window, facing the east like some
worshipper, even until the wheeling stars spelled the mid hour.
To Marie she gave one thought,--child-like Marie with her dependence
and her loving heart. But Marie, to whom she had been all things, was
safe in the care of Henri. There remained only the dream of the
Whispering Hills and the illusive figure of a man,--an old man, sturdy
of form and with blue eyes set in swarthy darkness.
Poignant was the pain that assailed her at that memory.
Pages:
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180