She had fallen in the depths of a hemlock grove; thick green branches wreathed with snow drooped over her, swayed heavily by the sobbing wind. No moon could penetrate there; even the snow looked inky in those dense shadows.
A savage, less fiendish than the rest, came back, planted his burning torch in the snow, and went away; its red light streamed over her locked features. She felt the warmth, and struggled to get up. The motion shook the jewelled serpent from her head which uncoiled itself from her temple and lay writhing upon the snow like a living reptile creeping away from the flame.
She could not stand erect; she had no strength to cry aloud; but as all the terrors of that lonely death fell upon her, struggled fully, and answered the wind with her sobs. They had torn the fur mantle from her shoulders, and left her wrapped only in that crimson robe. The cold penetrated her to the heart, sharp particles of frost cut across her face. Her blue lips quivered above her chattering teeth. She crept towards the torch, and holding her purple hands on each side of it in piteous helplessness, strove to warm them; but they fell numbly down, and with a faint instinct she drew them under the flowing sleeves of her robe, and lay motionless, with death creeping steadily to her vitals.
“What is that, father? what is that shining like a fallen star through the hemlocks? See how that little column of smoke trembles through the leaves?”
Varnham turned from his path and the two bent their steps to the hemlock woods, following the light. Why did that pale man hold his breath as he moved forward? Why did Mary shiver audibly beneath her warm mantle? They had not yet seen that deathly face, the serpent scattering its mocking brightness on the snow, or the crimson robe that lay in masses over those frozen limbs. But a few steps more, and the torch revealed all this. The father and child looked at each other in mute horror. It lasted but a moment. Varnham swept back the hemlock branches and lifted his wife up from the snow. Mary took off her mantle and folded it around those heavy limbs, while the strong man gathered her to his heart and strove to warm that purple mouth with the life that sobbed and quivered through his own lips.
It was all in vain. The love which possessed no power over her youth, though it shook his soul to the centre, had not force enough to arouse his wife from that numb death-sleep. She opened her eyes once, after he bore her out to the moonlight, and, for an instant, Varnham felt her heart beat against his own. A cry of exquisite pain broke from him, then a tender young voice sobbed out:
“Mother—mother!”
A gleam of light stole over Catharine’s face. It would have been a smile, but those features were frozen into marble, and had lost all power of expression; but the eyes had meaning in them still. They turned upon that angel face, and, filling with lovelight, froze in their sockets.
“Mother—mother!” cried Mary, falling on her knees beside the lifeless form.