His arms closed upon the empty air, his dazzled eyes beheld only the frost-bound Downs, the clump of firs against which he had seen her form outlined—there was no trace of her anywhere. Calling upon her frantically, first in anger, then with anguish, then in wild terror, he searched about the place, but all was silence—desolation.
He came down the hilly path at last slowly, looking neither to right nor to left, his head sunk upon his breast and his figure swaying.
Here was the bank where she had picked that sprig of sweetbriar to which she had likened herself; the leafless bush coated with frost like its fellows gave forth no perfume as he passed, and he did not even pause.
Now the lychgate came in sight once more, and David quickening his pace ran unsteadily towards it. The gate yielded to his hand, but no fairy form lay in ambush behind it, no arch mocking face peered at him through the bars. Yet as it swung to behind him David stood still, catching his breath with a gasp; a rush of overpowering perfume greeted his nostrils, here in the dead of the winter’s night the frozen air was heavy with the scent of sweetbriar. As he staggered forward with a choking cry his feet sank deep in the soft mould of a newly-made grave.
THE ABERDEEN UNIVERSITY PRESS LIMITED
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.