The cry was repeated, louder and clearer, and it died away, you know how, just as if it wanted somehow or other to cling on to life. You didn’t like to hear the end of that last cry; it was so inarticulate that it spoke.
But it ended at last, as all such end. What had happened to it? It had fallen among the black leaves.
It had touched the black water. There is a very still Deep in the Silent Forest, and its waters run slowly but surely. It’s part of the curse, you know, raindrops distilled from the Black Cloud.
It was only one of many deeps, but the silence had fallen again, even deeper it seemed than before, till a breeze swept over the tops of the trees, and here is what it sang as it passed:—
“This is the Forest of Failure. Here is the Humiliation Vale. It is filled with tears which are never seen, and sighs that are never heard. All mankind has to tread it—now or then—now or then—willy-nilly—each man treads it, and alone, now or then.”
Deborah saw a gate and passed in. And over the gate there was a prayer written, just as we see writing through a looking-glass.
“I ought to know that prayer,” she thought.
“It is the Lord’s Prayer,” said a voice.
“No. I think it is too short,” and the gate clanged to with a horrible grate.
“I want to go out.” It was too late—too late. But what pretty flowers grew along the path! White ones with yellow eyes, and jessamine, and even pink wild roses, and honeysuckle too. Yet when you picked them they fell like dust.