Uplifted is the stone, And all mankind arisen! We men remain thine own, And vanished is our prison! What bitterest grief can stay Before thy golden cup, When earth and life give way, And with our Lord we sup! To the marriage Death doth call. The maidens are not slack; The lamps are burning all-- Of oil there is no lack. Afar I hear the walking Of thy great marriage throng! And hark! the stars are talking With human tone and tongue! Courage! for life is hasting To endless life away; The inner fire, unwasting, Transfigures our dull clay! See the stars melting, sinking, In life wine, golden bright! We, of the splendour drinking, Shall grow to stars of light. Lost, lost are all our losses; Love set for ever free; The full life heaves and tosses Like an eternal sea! One endless living story! One poem spread abroad! And the sun of all our glory Is the countenance of God. CHAPTER XIII. THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. The next morning rose as lovely as if the mantle of the departing Resurrection-day had fallen upon it. Malcolm rose with it, hastened to his boat, and pulled out into the bay for an hour or two’s fishing. Nearly opposite the great conglomerate rock at the western end of the dune, called the Bored Craig (_Perforated Crag_) because of a large hole that went right through it, he began to draw in his line. Glancing shoreward as he leaned over the gunwale, he spied at the foot of the rock, near the opening, a figure in white, seated, with bowed head. It was of course the mysterious lady, whom he had twice before seen thereabout at this unlikely if not untimely hour; but with yesterday fresh in his mind, how could he fail to see in her an angel of the resurrection waiting at the sepulchre to tell the glad news that the Lord was risen? Many were the glances he cast shoreward as he re-baited his line, and, having thrown it again into the water, sat waiting until it should be time to fire the swivel. Still the lady sat on, in her whiteness a creature of the dawn, without even lifting her head. At length, having added a few more fishes to the little heap in the bottom of his boat, and finding his watch bear witness that the hour was at hand, he seated himself on his thwart, and rowed lustily to the shore, his bosom filled with the hope of yet another sight of the lovely face, and another hearing of the sweet English voice and speech. But the very first time he turned his head to look, he saw but the sloping foot of the rock sink bare into the shore. No white-robed angel sat at the gate of the resurrection; no moving thing was visible on the far-vacant sands. When he reached the top of the dune, there was no living creature beyond but a few sheep feeding on the thin grass. He fired the gun, rowed back to the Seaton, ate his breakfast, and set out to carry the best of his fish to the House.