The old man stood on his threshold casting longing looks after the retreating form. An expression of intense sadness and resignation came over his furrowed countenance; slowly, with all the fatigue of nearly a century's living heavy upon him, he went back into his dark abode. There he stood for a long while beside the rustic table contemplating the pale marble face, and all his soul was in his eyes. The flickering light played on the exquisite visage, throwing over it a living warmth, so that the eyelids appeared to quiver as if they were trying to open once more.
Slowly and painfully the aged recluse bent down till his faded lips rested on the pure brow, the icy coldness of the stone penetrating through all his veins—then with a reluctant movement he laid the dark cloth over that vision of beauty, hiding it out of sight; and it was like the lid of a coffin being shut over the face of the dead.
XIII
And a strange song I have heard
By a shadowy stream,
And the singing of a snow-white bird
On the Hills of Dream.
Fiona Macleod.
The white wings of the bird could be seen far overhead. Eric looked up and understood that at whatever cost he must scale those heights towards which it flew. Such had been the decree of the kind old philosopher.
Firm was his resolution to obey him in everything, because never before had human being spoken thus unto him.
Only one fact his mind refused to grasp: how could such a man be a sinner? He thought of the gentle, venerable face, of his wise and beautiful sayings; and dear to his memory was the sound of his voice. His feelings towards the silent ghosts, that still followed him, were quite changed, for the words of the master were ever in his mind.