Could he do it? Had he rowed so far, miles and miles, for nothing? His slight, worn body seemed a mass of lead, his hands and feet were turned to water, as he climbed up, wearily, wearily. Many times he paused, clutching the naked stone, while he struggled for breath, racked by the terrible cough. Once his grasp loosened, and he had almost fallen, and felt already the shock on the reef below; but something drifted through his mind—a saying of his father’s, was it? “Hold on, Heron! a good bird and a rare un!” His muscles crisped again, the mist lifted a little from his eyes, and he climbed on; till now the top was reached, and the scarlet upland which his eyes had sought so yearningly these many weeks. With a long, sighing breath the tired man laid himself at full length on the glowing sod. He felt life go from him with that breath; the rest was mere detail.
He lay still, looking now across at the main island, now down and around him. A few paces away the rock broke sheer off, two hundred feet down to the water, that danced and dimpled in the sun. Between the highest crest of the rock and the sorrel-meadow where he lay was a tiny hollow brimming over with white violets, the scentless kind that blossom as late as June here. Heron looked at them and smiled, as bits of a nursery tale came back to the confusion of his mind.
“White as snow, red as blood,—what a pity the ravens never come over here! The rock is all gray and orange, no black.”
He dozed a little; then repeated drowsily, “Red as blood! only blood is a little darker, I think. Maybe ’t has faded out, all these years. Anyway, I shall be able to see.”
The light seemed dim, though he felt the sun striking fiercely on his head and shoulders. He pulled the scarlet sorrel blossoms, and let a stream of them run slowly through his hand. Yes, darker, surely.
He had forgotten by this time about Isla, about his wife and little Jacob, and all his doubts and fears. He seemed a boy again, only curiously weak, and with all sorts of creatures,—bees, were they?—buzzing about his head,—or inside it; he was not sure, and it did not matter.
The knife, now! he was tired, and rest was very near; and he did not think it would be laid up against him. Something in his head said it was cowardly, but he explained that it was only his body, that could not get about any longer, and that it would be a pity to let the folks see him die, because that would make them feel badly. He drew out the long, sharp knife, and made the light play along the blade, as he always loved to do at school, and smiled to himself.
“The same dear old Giles!” he said. “Good-by, old fellow, if we don’t meet again!”
He felt above his heart; this was where it should be. One stroke, now for rest and freedom—