"Oh, Mysie!" groaned a moorland brook close by, which grumbled at some
obstruction in its pathway, and then sighed over its mossy bed, like a
tired child emerging exhausted from a long fever, to fall asleep as
deeply as if the seal of death had been planted upon the little lips.
Occasionally he shifted his position, as his limbs grew cramped, or rose
to pace the moor again to bring himself more exhaustion; but always he
came back to the little knoll, and sat down again, groaning out the sad
plaintive words, that were at once an appeal and a cry, a defiance and a
submission. By and by the first gray streaks of dawn came filtering
through the curtains of the cloudy east, touching the low hills with
gray nimble fingers, or weaving a tapestry of magic, as they brightened
and grew clearer, over the gray face of the morn.
Soon the birds leapt again from every corner, climbing upon the ladders
of light and tumbling ecstasies of mad joy to welcome the day, as if
they feared to be left in the darkness with this strange figure, which
merely sat and groaned softly, and looked before it with silent agony in
its eyes; and now that the light had again come, they shouted their
protest in a louder, shriller note; they mounted upon the waves of light
and swooped down into the trough of the semi-darkness, expostulating and
crying, not so much in alarm now, as in anger.
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