Suddenly he raised himself and sat upright.
“Lilian! Lilian!” he cried, in a voice so loud and clear that it startled his savage auditors. “Ah, I will see you,” he went on, his eyes dilating and fixed on the opposite wall as if to pierce through it and all space.
“I will see you—and I can. I see you here, now, here beside me. Are you going with me? Keep those sweet eyes upon mine, as they are now, darling—ever—ever—ever.”
His voice sank, and with a glad smile he fell back and lay perfectly still, and without the faintest movement.
“He is dead!” exclaimed the savages, holding their breath.
Precisely at that moment Lilian Strange was uttering her passionate, despairing invocation, as she gazed through her open casement far into the clear, starry night.
The day broke upon Seringa Vale, and the rain gusts howled along the wind-swept wastes—violent, biting, and chill. But by noon there was not a cloud in the heavens, and Lilian had her wish, for the mountains were thickly covered with snow to their very base. And as she gazed upon the distant peaks starting forth from the blue sky, spotless and dazzling in their whiteness, it seemed to her that they might be a meet embodiment of her own frozen despair—ever the same—icebound sight and day—through calm and through storm.
And the sun shone down upon the land in his undimmed glory, plenty and prosperity reigned everywhere; not a whisper of war or disturbance was in the air, indeed, all such had died away as completely as if it had never been. And the hearts of the dwellers on the frontier were glad within them—for the red tide, once threatening, had been stayed, and upon their borders rested, in all its fulness, the blessing of Peace.
Part II.
Once where Amatola mountains rise up purple to the snow,
Where the forests hide the fountains,
And green pastures sleep below—
Sweeter far than song of battle,
On the breezes of the morn,
Came the lowing of our cattle
And the rustling of our corn.
Where our flocks and herds were feeding
Now the white man’s homestead stands;
And while yet his sword lies bleeding,
Lo, his plough is in new lands.
Lament of Tyala—Anon.