There was no answer. He pushed the bright chestnut curls from her forehead; and, as he did so, the head fell back, showing the face as pale as marble. She had died without a cry, without a sound.
Walter bent his head, and kissed her cheek, and wept.
"What is the matter, sir?" said the sergeant, rising from beside the body of Lord H----. "Did you know my lord?"
"Look here!" cried Walter. It was all he uttered. But in an instant they gathered round him, and lifted Edith from the horse. The sergeant put his hand upon the wrist, then shook his head sadly, and they laid her gently by the side of Lord H----. They knew not with how much propriety,--but thus she would have loved to rest.
Thus they met, and thus they parted; thus they loved and thus they died. But in one thing they were happy; for neither, at the last hour of life, knew the other's peril or the other's fate.
[CHAPTER XLIX.]
From the bloody field of Ticonderoga, Abercrombie retreated, as is well known, after having in vain attempted to take the inner abattis without cannon, and sacrificed the lives of many hundred gallant men to his own want of self-reliance.
I need dwell no more upon this painful subject; but it was a sad day for the whole army, a sad day for the whole province, and a sadder day still for one small domestic circle, when the bodies of the gallant Lord H---- and his promised bride were brought to rest for a night at the house of Mr. Prevost, before they were carried down to Albany. A party of the young nobleman's own regiment carried the coffins by turns, another party followed with arms reversed; but between the biers and the escort walked four men, with hearts as sad as any upon earth.
It may seem strange, but neither of the four shed a tear. The tall Indian warrior, though he grieved as much as if he had lost a child, had no tears for any earthly sorrow. The fountain in the heart of Mr. Prevost had been dried up by the fiery intensity of his grief. Walter had wept long and secretly, but the pride of manhood would not let him stain his cheeks in the presence of soldiers. Woodchuck's eyes were dry, too; for, during six long months, he had disciplined his heart to look upon the things of earth so lightly, that, although he grieved for Edith's fate, it was with the sort of sorrow he might have felt to see a beautiful flower trampled down by a rough foot; and bright hope mingled with the shadow of his woe--for he said to himself, frequently, "They have but parted for to-day, to meet in a happier place to-morrow."
As the procession approached the house, the servants came forth to meet it, with a young and comely girl at their head, clad in the Indian costume. She bore two little wreaths in her hand, one woven of bright spring flowers, the other of dark evergreens; and, when the soldiers halted for a moment with their burden, she laid the flowers upon the coffin of Edith, the evergreens upon the soldier's bier. Then turning, with the tears dropping from her eyes, but with no clamorous grief, she walked before them back into the house.