But she thrust us forth into the blackness with a smile, as though she
were flinging papers out of the window. She, too, grew out of the design
in the cracks of the ceiling, and a greater fear seized me at sight of
her features than when the red face came out of the brambles.
My constant torment was thirst. I was in the prairie, and it was
scorched and brown to the horizon. I searched and prayed pitifully for
water,--for only a sip of the brown water with the specks in it that was
in the swamp. There were no swamps. I was on the bed in the cabin
looking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and Polly Ann would
bring a gourdful of clear water from the spring as far as the door. Nay,
once I got it to my lips, and it was gone. Sometimes a young man in a
hunting shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tanned and his
fair hair bleached by the sun, would bring the water. He was the hero of
my boyhood, and part of him indeed was in me. And I would have followed
him again to Vincennes despite the tortures of the damned. But when I
spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes lost their lustre
and his hair turned gray; and his hand shook as he held out the gourd and
spilled its contents ere I could reach them.
Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of her I would tremble
and grow faint, and I had not the strength to reach for it.
Pages:
747
748
749
750
751
752
753
754
755
756
757
758
759
760
761
762
763
764
765
766
767
768
769
770
771