Darkness had settled over the mountain when, after an hour’s rest, he returned to the top of the trail and mended his fire and placed his kettle near enough to keep the contents hot. Through half the night he waited thus, sometimes walking about and peering into the obscurity below, sometimes replenishing his fire, and sometimes just patiently sitting, his arms clasped about his knees, gazing into space and brooding.
Many times had Harry King been lonely, but never had the awesomeness of life and its mysterious leadings so impressed him as during this night’s vigil. Moses alone on the mountain top, carried there and left where he might see into the promised land––the land toward which he had been aided miraculously to lead his people, but which he might not enter because of one sin,––one only transgression,––Elijah sitting alone in the wilderness waiting for the revealing of God––waiting heartbroken and weary, vicariously bearing in his own spirit regrets and sorrows over the waywardness of his people Israel,––and John, the forerunner––a “Voice crying in the wilderness ‘Repent ye!’”––these were not so lonely, for their God was with them and had led them by direct communication and miraculous power; they were not lonely as Cain was lonely, stained with a brother’s blood, cast out from among his fellows, hunted and haunted by his own guilt.
Silence profound and indescribable reigned, while the great, soft flakes continued to drift slowly down, silent––silent––as the grave, and above and beneath and on all 284 sides the same absolute neutrality of tint, vague and soft; yet the reality of the rugged mountain even so obscured and covered, remained; its cliffs and crags below, deadly and ragged, and fearful to look down upon, and skirting its sides the long, weary trail, up which at that very moment a man might be toiling, suffering, even to the limit of death––might be giving his life for the two women and the man who had come to him so suddenly out of the unknown; strange, passing strange it all was.
Again and again Harry rose and replenished the fire and stamped about, shaking from his shoulders the little heaps of snow that had collected there. The flames rose high in the still air and stained the snow around his bonfire a rosy red. The redness of the fire-stained snow was not more deep and vital than the red blood pulsing through his heart. With all a strong man’s virility and power he loved as only the strong can love, and through all his brooding that undercurrent ran like a swift and mighty river,––love, stronger than hate,––love, triumphing over death,––love, deeper than hell,––love, lifting to the zenith of heaven;––only two things seemed to him verities at that moment, God above, and love within,––two overwhelming truths, terrible in their power, all-consuming in their sweetness, one in their vast, incomprehensible entity of force, beneficent, to be forever sought for and chosen out of all the universe of good.
The true meaning of Amalia’s faith, as she had brokenly tried to explain it to him, dawned on his understanding. God,––love, truth, and power,––annihilating evil as light eats up darkness, drawing all into the great “harmony of the music of God.”
Sitting there in the red light of the fire with the snow falling around him, he knew what he must do first to come into the harmony. He must take up his burden and declare the truth, and suffer the result, no matter what it might be. Keen were all the impressions and visions of his mind. Even while he could see Amalia sleeping in the cabin, and could feel her soft breath on his cheek, could feel her in his arms,––could hear her prayers for Larry Kildene’s safety as at that moment he might be coming to them,––he knew that the mighty river of his love must be held back by a masterful will––must be dammed back until its floods deepened into an ocean of tranquillity while he rose above his loneliness and his fierce longing,––loving her, yet making no avowal,––holding her in his heart, yet never disturbing her peace of spirit by his own heart’s tumult,––clinging to her night and day, yet relinquishing her.
And out of this resolution, against which his nature cried and beat itself, he saw, serene, and more lonely than Moses or Elijah,––beautiful, and near to him as his love, the Christ taken to the high places, even the pinnacle of the temple––and the mountain peak, overlooking the worlds and the kingdoms thereof, and turning from them all to look down on him with a countenance of ineffable beauty––the love that dies not.
He lifted his head. The visions were gone. Had he slept? The fire was burning low and a long line was streaked across the eastern sky; a line of gold, while still darkness rested below him and around him. Again he built up the fire, and set the kettle closer. He stood out on the height at the top of the trail and listened, his figure 286 a black silhouette against the dancing flames. He called, he shouted with all his power, then listened. Did he hear a call? Surely it must be. He plunged downward and called again, and again came the faint response. In his hand he carried a long pole, and with it he prodded about in the snow for sure footing and continued to descend, calling from time to time, and rejoicing to hear the answering call. Yes, Larry Kildene was below him in the obscurity, and now his voice came up to Harry, long and clear. He had not far to go ere he saw the big man slowly toiling upward through the dusk of dawn. He had dismounted, and the weary animals were following behind.
Thus Larry Kildene came back to his mountain. Exhausted, he still made light of his achievement––climbing through day and night to arrive before the snow should embank around him. He stood in the firelight swaying with weariness and tasted the hot coffee and shook his grizzled head and laughed. The animals came slowly on and stood close to him, almost resting their noses on his shoulder, while Harry King gazed on him with admiration.