A lark rose at
the edge of the crowd of weeping women and children as if unmindful of
the tragedy over which it sang so rapturously, and he noted its
fluttering wings and swelling throat as it soared in circles of glad
song.
All these things and more he noted though it was but a momentary pause.
"Are you right?" came the question from the men at the windlass, far
away it seemed and unconnected with the scene.
"Right," he answered with a start, and looking round he seemed to become
aware of the white-faced, red-eyed women among whom his mother's face
seemed to stand out. She was not weeping, he noticed, but oh God! her
face seemed to turn him with the intensity of the suffering in her eyes.
He realized that he had not noticed her before, and now with a wild
throb of pity he stretched out his hands towards her, a look of
suffering in his eyes, as if he were feeling the pains of humanity
crucified anew, and the chair began to drop slowly below the surface,
swinging down into the darkness and the evil dangers that lurked below.
Her face was the last thing he saw--a face full of agony yet calm with a
great renunciation coming to birth in her eyes, her lips drawn thin like
a slit in her face and all the color gone from them, the head bent a
little as if a great blow had fallen upon her--an island of agony set in
a sea of despair.
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