Ever and ever poured on the untiring flood, till one wondered it did not pour itself out. The heart grew oppressed at the vastness of its images, crowding and rolling and pressing, as did the tumultuous waves over their rocky steep. Water—still water, till the nerves ached from weariness at its perpetual flow, and the mind questioned if the sound were not silence, so lonely was the spell—questioned, if the sound ceased, whether the heart would not cease to beat, and life become extinct.
The winds suddenly died away; the stars came out each upon his golden throne and looked down upon the scene. John Bonyton and Hope stood not far from the beacon-fire, which sent its jets of light far and wide.
Suddenly, a wild, unearthly yell filled the air. It rose loud and piercing, and the roar of the waters was lost in one vast, terrible cry of agony.
The chiefs of the Sacos gathered about their sagamore. Hope pointed to the white foam of the falls; her eyes dilated with delight; her form expanded, and in that moment of exultation she looked like some beautiful, but avenging spirit.
“Look, John Bonyton! Behold the handiwork of Hope Vines!”
A black mass gleamed amid the white foam; another and another; and yet a wild yell of horror—a black, descending mass, poised one moment upon the verge—a fearful plunge, and the old river took up its ancient song, and went its way to the far-off deep, to be lost in the vast ocean.
“Tell me, what is this?” cried John Bonyton, seizing the hand of Hope, and conscious of an undefined horror at a nameless deed.
Hope saw the changed look—saw the fierce eye of the sagamore, and her high spirit quailed before it. Exultation gave place to defiance, for one brief space, and then she waved her hand and would have darted away, had he not detained her.
“Tell me, Hope, I beseech thee—tell me the meaning of this dreadful scene—more terrible than the fiercest struggle, foot to foot, of armed men!”