For the coloured steamer had disappeared. Probably it had been shaken away to the neighbouring bushes, when the bough had sprung back into position; perhaps it had then been unsecured and the wind had since removed It. At all events it had vanished, and this knowledge brought her happiness.[1]
She paused for awhile, as though in thought. Her soft forehead fell into little, curved lines, while the beautiful face grew grave. 'It might have been the wind,' she said doubtfully, speaking slowly to the rippling waters, 'but, if it was, the wind is a spirit—yes, a good spirit. Now he has spoken to me. I am beautiful, and I shall be happy.'
A dull roar from the distant rapids beat down ominously along the evening wind. With the wind that bore the sound came a wave, which broke itself against the black rock, casting a tiny cloud of spray upward.
The girl's face altered its expression at once. The thought lines vanished, while others appeared to bend round her mouth in the shape of a smile.
'Beautiful,' she murmured, alone, yet half bashful; 'the water has told me so often, and now it calls me again.'
She inclined her head forward, while the smile deepened. 'Listen!'
The waters splashed, rippled, flashed, swung round in a long gurgling eddy, then splashed again. Out of this rose a low, musical tinkle, with a soft lap-lap upon the rocks which sounded like a kiss.
'Yes. That was a name. Listen! There it comes again—Menotah! Heart that knows not sorrow.'
She timidly came to the extreme edge, then fell to her knees. As the sun disappeared behind the grey-dark ledge opposite, she bent her dainty head over and down, until the long black hair divided and fell in two glossy strands, the ends of which floated like seaweed upon the foam patches.
The river pool commenced to blacken, while flowering rushes tossed their shivering heads and murmured. The Spirit of the waters called her. So she leant over—down, nearer, closer, until her fingers curved over the stone amid the moisture and green slime.