The figure pointed upward, but even while she made the gesture, she fell prostrate to the earth.
“Oh, my God! be merciful!” cried the sagamore, lifting her in his arms, and even while he spoke the strength of the strong man departed, and he sunk down trembling, for to him it seemed as if the spirit of the girl had fled.
The years of agony—the lapse of thirty years—were concentrated in that moment. All the dull, dreary, lingering aches of rolling months and lengthening years were combined, and plunged into one vast pang.
At length Hope lifted up her head, wringing her hands, with a face white as snow.
“Oh! John Bonyton, did I not tell you so years ago? Did I not see Hope always alone—always desolate?”
“My poor bird!”
Their heads were bowed down, their breathing faint and labored, and low moans escaped them. What was the world to them! Stricken and changed, living and breathing, they only knew that they lived and breathed by the pangs that revealed the beating pulse.
Oh! life, life! thou art a fearful boon, and thy love not the least fearful of thy gifts!
At length Hope remembered the beacon-fire; and she started wildly to her feet, for if the flame decayed her work would be lost; but there was no fear; the flames had kindled a tall hemlock, heavy with the moss of ages, and this poured forth volumes of fiery tongues, lighting the scene with midday radiance. She pointed to the beacon, and would have spoken, but the sagamore held her firmly in his arms, and smoothing back her white hair, he murmured:
“Thou shalt never leave me again, my tender, my beautiful bird! It has fared ill with thee.”