The very earth seemed breathing. Long waves of heat palpitated over the
harvest-fields, and the din of the locust drove lazily through. The far
cry of the king-fisher, and idly clacking wheels of carts rolling down
from Dalgrothe Mountain, accented the drowsy melody of the afternoon.
The wild mustard glowed so like a golden carpet, that the destroying
hand of the anxious farmer seemed of the blundering tyranny of labour.
Whole fields were flaunting with poppies, too gay for sorrow to pass
that way; but a blind girl, led by a little child, made a lane through
the red luxuriance, hurrying to the place where vanity and valour, and
the remnant of an unfulfilled manhood, lay beaten to death.

Destiny, which is stronger than human love, or the soul's fidelity, had
overmastered self-sacrifice and the heart of a woman. This woman had
opened her eyes upon the world again, only to find it all night, all
strange; she was captive of a great darkness.

As she broke through the hedge of lilacs by the Cure's house, the crowd
of awe-stricken people fell back, opening a path for her to the door.
She moved as one unconscious of the troubled life and the vibrating
world about her.

The hand of the child admitted her to the chamber of death; the door
closed, and she stood motionless.

The Cure made as if to rise and go towards her, but Madame Chalice,
sitting sorrowful and dismayed at the foot of the couch, by a motion of
her hand stopped him.

The girl paused a moment, listening. "Your Excellency," she whispered.
It was as if a soul leaned out of the casement of life, calling into
the dark and the quiet which may not be comprehended by mortal man.
"Monsieur--Valmond!"

Her trembling hands were stretched out before her yearningly. The Cure
moved. She turned towards the sound with a pitiful vagueness.

"Valmond, O Valmond!" again she cried beseechingly, her clouded eyes
straining into the silence.

The cloak dropped from her shoulders, and the loose robe enveloping
her fell away from a bosom that throbbed with the passion of a great
despair. Nothing but silence.

She moved to the wall like a little child feeling its way, ran her hand
vaguely along it, and touched a crucifix. With a moan she pressed her
lips to the nailed feet, and came on gropingly to the couch. She reached
down towards it, but drew back as if in affright; for a dumb, desolating
fear was upon her.

But with that direful courage which is the last gift to the ho