Again I would have turned to the northward, but
the son of Powhatan, gliding before me, set his face down the
stream, toward the river I had left. A minute in which I tried to
think and could not, because in my ears was the singing of the
birds at Weyanoke; then I followed him.
How long I walked in a dream, hand in hand with the sweetness of
the past, I do not know; but when the present and its anguish
weighed again upon my heart it was darker, colder, stiller, in the
forest. The soundless stream was bright no longer; the golden
sunshine that had lain upon the earth was all gathered up; the earth
was dark and smooth and bare, with not a flower; the tree trunks
were many and straight and tall. Above were no longer brown
branch and blue sky, but a deep and sombre green, thick woven,
keeping out the sunlight like a pall. I stood still and gazed around
me, and knew the place.
To me, whose heart was haunted, the dismal wood, the charmed
silence, the withdrawal of the light, were less than nothing. All day
I had looked for one sight of horror; yea, had longed to come at
last upon it, to fall beside it, to embrace it with my arms. There,
there, though it should be some fair and sunny spot, there would be
my haunted wood. As for this place of gloom and stillness, it fell
in with my mood. More welcome than the mocking sunshine were
this cold and solemn light, this deathlike silence, these ranged
pines.
Pages:
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450