'The God of the white men would not listen to my prayers, perchance He had not the power, and to the voice of my pleading was He dumb. Now have I come back to the gods of my fathers, the great gods, who are at least as powerful. Yet from them I receive no answer, nor does any message stir within me through the night. Perchance there are no gods. Perchance the world is ruled by evil passion and cruel might.'
Dry leaves rustled beneath footsteps. But the useless ears were closed to all sounds from without.
'I live,' he repeated, clutching with claw-like hand the corner of his blanket. 'Life is mine, but I need it not. Long have I lived to gather much wisdom. Ay, and I shall live.'
Along, in the full light of the white moon, came the figure of a woman, upright and stern. She gazed neither to the right nor left, but kept the eyes, cold as the crystals that cut her face, fixed upon the winding path that trailed away in front. She was scantily clad, her head uncovered, save for the wild beauty of luxuriant hair; her feet were bare, and crushed, without feeling, the frost-covered leaves. Hanging from her shoulders was a trembling, frightened bundle. A child, shivering with the cold, wondering at his mother's sternness; a child, who touched her icy cheek with tiny fingers, who cried again and again the one love-word which had always before that night brought to him some response,—
'Mother! Oh, mother!'
She was insensible, alike to the wailing of her child and the sharpness of frost bite. Up to the hut door she came, until her cloak almost swept against the crouched figure, yet without sign of recognition, with no turn of the head. But the Ancient knew her. As she approached and struck his vision, he crept feebly back, gathering his blanket more closely round him, lest it should suffer contamination by touch. As she passed, unheeding that the last friend had forsaken her, he collected his failing energies, spat after her, raised his hands with malediction, and spoke bitter words of execration. All this effort might have been spared the feeble frame, for she trod on through the night with no heed to his curses, regardless even of his presence.
So he crawled weakly into the hut and closed the door.
But she kept on her course, dead to the present, forgetful of the past, conscious only of the immediate future. Her body brushed apart silver-lined bush, scattered the light hoar frost from dried grass stalks, and still she gazed before her, still she clasped the trembling child without word or sign. For her, joy had been spent; now even grief was a thing of the past. Behind her lay darkness, one stern resolution lay in front—then darkness again.
She came to a rugged rock, half covered with clinging bush. Here memory may have stirred the cold mind, for she paused, allowing her eyes to rest for a moment upon the black, glistening surface. Here had she stood on the evening previous to the fight; here had she chanted the happy song of pure heart joy, provoking the envy of all else that was beautiful in nature; here had Antoine admonished her of dangers impending, here also had that advice been laughed away. Through the forest, to the left, spread the river pool, where she had been wont to lie on summer afternoons to admire the beauty that smiled at her from the peaceful waters. That pool now flashed beneath the weird lights; the rock on which she had so often stretched her young body was still to be found unchanged. But what picture would that mirror now reveal. Where was the face of beauty, the lips curling into laughter, the eyes dancing with joy light, the smiles that had once dimpled the waves, and the soft features moulded into perfect lines of grace? Where? Ah, where? Vanished—departed—melted.
Gone. Gone for ever. So the dead leaves rained thickly from the cold trees, while icy winds moaned, and earth shivered at the approach of winter. For the brightest colours must fade, and everything living must see decay.