It was the voice of the world, the voice of the serpent.
“A l’aide, mon Dieu!” she panted. “I will do no evil. If we fall, we fall!”
Was it the heavenly voice once heard, or but an echo of it in her memory, which now seemed repeating those words of miracle: Come unto me—the well done that had accepted and rewarded her plea for help! Her fleet feet skimmed the mountain path, her panting lungs drew in the mountain air; but her mind saw once more the golden dusk of the Basilica, the rich molten coloring of the walls, the words of God sparkling out here and there in letters of gold, the Throne and the tiara; and her soul felt the coming of that Presence which had filled the sacred cloister. Half unconscious of her body, she seemed to be borne along by wings set in her fluttering temples.
Then the path turned, and the water-gate was before her. One swift glance over her shoulder told that the door was not yet open.
Iona ran to the beam, and leaning on it, pushed with all her strength. It did not stir. As she leaned, she saw the signal-station on the opposite mountains. It had not changed. The door was discovered; efforts had been made to open it; but it was not open.
With a frantic effort she pushed. The beam trembled, but did not move.
“A l’aide, mon Roi!” she whispered, and threw her whole being against the beam, while her ears rang, and her temples ached with the strain.
It started, moved; the water caught the gate. Iona was carried along, her glazing eyes fixed on the signal.
The course of the beam ended against a mossy bank. When it stopped, Iona’s failing form rested as if kneeling on the moss, her arms on the beam, her cheek resting on the moss above it. And over her lips, and over the wood, the moss, and the rock flowed a stream of bright red blood.
Her head drooped slowly, and she fell asleep!