It had come to
seem the gigantic wood of some fantastic tale through which I was
traveling. The fallen trees ranged themselves into an abatis hard to
surmount; the thickets withstood one like iron; the streamlets were
like rivers, the marshes leagues wide, the treetops miles away.
Little things, twisted roots, trailing vines, dead and rotten wood,
made me stumble. A wind was blowing that had blown just so
since time began, and the forest was filled with the sound of the
sea.
Afternoon came, and the shadows began to lengthen. They were
lines of black paint spilt in a thousand places, and stealing swiftly
and surely across the brightness of the land. Torn and bleeding and
breathless, I hastened on; for it was drawing toward night, and I
should have been at Jamestown hours before. My head pained me,
and as I ran I saw men and women stealing in and out among the
trees before me: Pocahontas with her wistful eyes and braided hair
and finger on her lips; Nantauquas; Dale, the knight-marshal, and
Argall with his fierce, unscrupulous face; my cousin George Percy,
and my mother with her stately figure, her embroidery in her
hands. I knew that they were but phantoms of my brain, but their
presence confused and troubled me.
The shadows ran together, and the sunshine died out of the forest.
Stumbling on, I saw through the thinning trees a long gleam of red,
and thought it was blood, but presently knew that it was the river,
crimson from the sunset.
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