Helen. From that hill it comes, does it not?
Jan. Yes—yes, I should think it did. Oh yes. There is a guard left there—I had forgotten that. Mon Dieu! How white your lips are! Are you afraid, Ma'amselle?
(Helen stands gazing silently from the window.)
Jan. There is no danger. It must have been those soldiers that we heard,—or the cry of some wild animal roaming through yonder woods—it might have been,—how many strange sounds we hear from them. At another time we should never have thought of it. I think we should have heard that signal though, ere this,—I do, indeed.
Helen. What is it to die? Nor wood nor meadow, nor winding stream, nor the blue sky, do they see; nor the voice of bird or insect do they hear; nor breeze, nor sunshine, nor fragrance visits them. Will there be nothing left that makes this being then? The high, Godlike purpose—the life whose breath it is,—can that die?—the meek trust in Goodness Infinite,—can that perish? No.—This is that building of the soul which nothing can dissolve, that house eternal, that eternity's wide tempests cannot move. No—no—I am not afraid. No—Netty, I am not afraid.
Jan. Will you come here, Miss Helen?
Helen. Well.
Jan. Look among those trees by the road-side—those pine trees, on the side of the hill, where my finger points.—
Helen. Well—what is it?
Jan. Do you see—what a blinding sunshine this is—do you see something moving there?—wait a moment—they are hid among the trees now—you will see them again presently—There!—there they come, a troop of them, see.