The fire did not last them long, for all the twigs they could collect
were scanty; the blaze had heated the rock a little; they drew closer to
it, and the mother, curling up against it in her shawls, composed
herself as she could for slumber; the voices of Orient and Reymund, from
where they still sat and talked together, lulled her as the murmur of
the waterfall lulled Sleep himself. Orient was repeating Jean Ingelow’s
dream of her lover fallen and dead among the hills, with its vague and
awesome imagery. “I do not understand,” she said, as she ceased, “this
solicitude that my mother and so many others feel concerning their
burial-place. I love life, delicious life; but if we die and lie
unburied here forever among the lonely precipices, it will not matter
any more to us than it did to the youth.” And she repeated again:--
“The first hath no advantage,--it shall not soothe his slumber
That a lock of his brown hair his father aye shall keep;
For the last, he nothing grudgeth, it shall naught his quiet cumber
That in a golden mesh of _his_, callow eaglets sleep.”
Reymund quaked at the moment, as he thought of any lustrous lock of
Orient’s curling out of the fierce beak that should tear it away from
the white brow. Then he said: “Too philosophic by half. As for me, with
the first peep of day in this high meridian, I shall be up and doing,
and find a way to our level again or--perish in the attempt.”
“Resolved to perish, any way. Give you liberty or give you death. _I_ do
not feel in such a hurry to be gone. How silent and solemn it is,--what
a clear darkness,--listen a moment and catch the sough of that pine
forest far beneath, like the wings of some great spirit sifting the air.
I have never been so near heaven. I understand now why in the Bible they
so often withdrew into a high mountain.”
Reymund did not answer her. “Say your prayers, innocent one,” was what
he thought. “Wherever you are, there heaven is near.”
By and by Orient crept closer to her mother for mutual comfort, wound
her own cloak round her like a chrysalis, and drowsed and dreamed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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