Without a word Matthew put his hand on my arm and pointed down to the valley where the great buzzard that I had laughed at but half an hour before was again sweeping round above the trees.
My heart stopped, and I felt it lie like a cold stone within me as I thought upon what dainty flesh this foul bird of carrion had been gorging.
CHAPTER XLVII.
WE GO DOWN INTO THAT VALLEY OF DEATH.
I knew too well what Matthew meant by this silent indication. He would have me to understand that the Ingas' slaughtered victims had been cast down the precipice (as the traces in the road bore out), and that the carrion birds were already feasting on their bodies.
My imagination could furnish forth no argument against the justice of this conclusion, and having now no hope to animate me, all about me appeared a blank, as if my heart could no longer feel, and all my faculties were stunned. So I stood there, watching the buzzard whirl round and round, as if I had nothing in the world to do but that.
I was aroused from this apathy by Matthew laying his hand on my shoulder, and saying in a gentle voice:
"Master, would it ease your mind to talk about her?"
Then I felt that I would like to pour out the grief from my heart, yet not to Matthew; so I turned away in an agony, thinking there was no one in the wide world to sympathize with me now she was gone. Who but I knew how gentle and sweet her nature was, and what words of mine could ever tell her praise as she deserved? Then recalling the sweet face, her delicate, gracious manner, the pretty tone of her voice, and in particular certain little kind words she had given me, with an encouraging look now and again, her brave habit of looking on the better side of our misfortunes to cheer me up, the dainty movement of her hands, and one or two little episodes wherein she had shown a pleasant wit—recalling these things, I say, and reflecting that they could never, never be repeated, my heart was wrung with bitter grief.