When evening came and our
entertainers drew off to prepare for the dance, they left us as
wearied as by a long day's march.
The wind had been high during the day, but with the sunset it sank
to a desolate murmur. The sky wore the strange crimson of the past
year at Weyanoke. Against that sea of color the pines were drawn
in ink, and beneath it the winding, threadlike creeks that pierced
the marshes had the look of spilt blood moving slowly and heavily
to join the river that was black where the pines shadowed it, red
where the light touched it. From the marsh arose the cry of some
great bird that made its home there; it had a lonely and a boding
sound, like a trumpet blown above the dead. The color died into an
ashen gray and the air grew cold, with a heaviness beside that
dragged at the very soul. Diccon shivered violently, turned
restlessly upon the log that served him as settle, and began to
mutter to himself.
"Art cold?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Something walked over my grave," he said. "I
would give all the pohickory that was ever brewed by heathen for a
toss of aqua vit‘!"
In the centre of the village rose a great heap of logs and dry
branches, built during the day by the women and children. When
the twilight fell and the owls began to hoot this pile was fired, and
lit the place from end to end.
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