Sweet and tuneful was the note, and full and lovely as the voice of a celestial being; an exceeding melodious high treble, so that it seemed to be no mortal that sang, but a spirit from High Heaven. And thus it was:
Stay not in the land of sighing,
Stay not in the vale of tears;
Where the phantom of the years
Haunts the weary and the dying:
Lo! the Island of the Holy....
And suddenly it ceased. Clear on the silent night was borne a cry—a loud, long-drawn, quavering cry that told of terror and suffering and the plucking forth of a life. Falling at that season, and amid those dark and dreadful mysteries, it was a thing to make the blood of the boldest run cold.
Yet sorrow took hold on me at the sound; for I knew the voice: it was the death-cry of my brother.
The rest of the night passed uneventful. I remained on deck, weeping and brooding.
I was sensible of having grown suddenly older, of having from a lad changed into a careworn man.