Death’s but the opening of a gate,
The parting of a mist that dims the sky.
We live in thee! We live in thee!
San Salvador,
We live in thee!”
Tacita held her breath to listen. Was she indeed riding through mountain paths and morning air, or lying in a dream in some strange land? Dylar’s was the voice that had sung beneath their window when her grandfather was dying!
The way grew wilder. The rocks were black and frowning. Sometimes their path was but a narrow shelf along the face of a precipice. Once the guide made her descend, and fastened a rope from iron hook to hook set in the rock for her to hold in passing.
At noon they reached a little plateau,—a few feet of short turf, some tiny vines and spotted lichens, and a blue flower, all of which seemed miracles in that place. Here they dismounted and ate their luncheon.
“What a wonder a flower would be, if there were only one in the world!” Dylar said, seeing Tacita bend over this.
She smiled, and continued to examine it carefully, without touching. It seemed something sacred. Who drew the little lines on its petals, and scattered the gold dust in its heart, and gave it all that seeming of innocent faith and courage? The grass-blades, too, with their fine serrated edges, and sharp points thrust upward, then curving over, as if they were spears changing to pruning-hooks,—what beautiful things they were when there were but few!