heir powers to himself--struggled to be, of his own unaided
might, stronger than death, more powerful than the grave. He had
demanded of Sarria that God should restore Angele to him, but now he
appealed directly to Angele herself. As he lay there, his arms clasped
about her grave, she seemed so near to him that he fancied she MUST
hear. And suddenly, at this moment, his recollection of his strange
compelling power--the same power by which he had called Presley to him
half-way across the Quien Sabe ranch, the same power which had brought
Sarria to his side that very evening--recurred to him. Concentrating his
mind upon the one object with which it had so long been filled, Vanamee,
his eyes closed, his face buried in his arms, exclaimed:

"Come to me--Angele--don't you hear? Come to me."

But the Answer was not in the Grave. Below him the voiceless Earth lay
silent, moveless, withholding the secret, jealous of that which it held
so close in its grip, refusing to give up that which had been confided
to its keeping, untouched by the human anguish that above there, on its
surface, clutched with despairing hands at a grave long made. The Earth
that only that morning had been so eager, so responsive to the lightest
summons, so vibrant with Life, now at night, holding death within its
embrace, guarding inviolate the secret of the Grave, was deaf to all
entreaty, refused the Answer, and Angele remained as before, only a
memory, far distant, intangible, lost.

Vanamee lifted his head, looking about him with unseeing eyes, trembling
with the exertion of his vain effort. But he could not as yet allow
himself to despair. Never before had that curious power of attraction
failed him. He felt himself to be so strong in this respect that he
was persuaded if he exerted himself to the limit of his capacity,
something--he could not say what--must come of it. If it was only
a self-delusion, an hallucination, he told himself that he would be
content.

Almost of its own accord, his distorted mind concentrated itself again,
every thought, all the power of his will riveting themselves upon
Angele. As if she were alive, he summoned her to him. His eyes, fixed
upon the name cut into the headstone, contracted, the pupils growing
small, his fists shut tight, his nerves braced rigid.

For a few seconds he stood thus, breathless, expectant, awaiting the
manifestation, the Miracle. Then, without knowing why, hardly conscious
of what was transpiri