No, it
could not be so. Again, I was in the garden at Les Iles on a night that
was all perfume, and I saw the flowers all ghostly white under the moon.
And then, suddenly, I was watching the green candle sputter, and out of
the stillness came a cry--the sereno calling the hour of the night. How
my head throbbed! It was keeping time to some rhythm, I knew not what.
Yes, it was the song my father used to sing:--
"I've faught on land? I've faught at sea,
At hume I've faught my aunty, O!"
But New Orleans was hot, burning hot, and this could not be cold I felt.
Ah, I had it, the water was cold going to Vincennes, so cold!
A voice called me. No matter where I had gone, I think I would have come
back at the sound of it. I listened intently, that I might lose no word
of what it said. I knew the voice. Had it not called to me many times
in my life before? But now there was fear in it, and fear gave it a
vibrant sweetness, fear gave it a quality that made it mine--mine.
"You are shivering."
That was all it said, and it called from across the sea. And the sea was
cold,--cold and green under the gray light. If she who called to me
would only come with the warmth of her love! The sea faded, the light
fell, and I was in the eternal cold of space between the whirling worlds.
If she could but find me! Was not that her hand in mine? Did I not feel
her near me, touching me? I wondered that I should hear myself as I
answered her.
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