He raised his arms with a despairing motion, then let them
drop heavily to his side. . . .
And then two strong hands caught his throat, a body pressed hard against
him, and he was borne backward--backward--to the cliff!
CHAPTER XX
AFTER THE STORM
I was sitting on the verandah, writing a letter to Belle Treherne. The
substantial peace of a mountain evening was on me. The air was clear, and
full of the scent of the pines and cedars, and the rumble of the rapids
came musically down the canon. I lifted my head and saw an eagle sailing
away to the snow-topped peak of Trinity, and then turned to watch the
orioles in the trees. The hour was delightful. It made me feel how grave
mere living is, how noble even the meanest of us becomes sometimes--in
those big moments when we think the world was built for us. It is half
egotism, half divinity; but why quarrel with it?
I was young, ambitious; and Love and I were at that moment the only
figures in the universe really deserving attention! I looked on down a
lane of cedars before me, seeing in imagination a long procession of
pleasant things; of--As I looked, another procession moved through the
creatures of my dreams, so that they shrank away timidly, then utterly,
and this new procession came on and on, until--I suddenly rose, and
started forward fearfully, to see--unhappy reality!--the body of Galt
Roscoe carried towards me.
Pages:
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416