“I?”
The one little word told him how impossible that was.
“Yea, there are the old and blind and simple to be cared for. I forgot.”
“I covet not that land, my Christof,” said she, “nor any other land than this.”
“Beloved,” said he, solemnly, “our fate draws so near that I can see it. The ice can little longer be held back. And that is death to us and to our small land.”
“Yea,” said she, almost happily.
“Thou dost not wish to live?”
“I? I would live forever, asking but one thing—thy love. Yet, I will die here willingly, because all that I know is here—all life—all death—all joy—all hope and fear. Why, it is not hard, dear love. We have been born to it. Each morning we look first up at the glacier to read if we shall live that day.”
“Our fathers have done ill to keep us here. Ill to stay themselves. What is there here?”
He swept the air with his hand. The sun was setting on the glacier. The mountain seemed all gold. The sea was saffron.