For the first time he saw how the fire that was so manifest in the old
man had been consuming her, also. It left no mark of the coming of death
upon her. But it had burned her pure and left her transparent as
crystal. Pity swelled in the throat of Byrne as he realised the anguish
of her long waiting. Fear mingled with his pity. He felt that something
was coming which would seize on her as the wind seizes on the dead leaf,
whirling her off into an infinity of storm and darkness into which he
could not follow a single pace.
He turned back towards the window. The rush of air played steadily, and
then in pulses, upon his face. Then even the wind ceased; as if it, too,
were waiting. Not a sound. But silence has a greater voice than discord
or music. It seemed to Byrne that he could tell how fast each heart was
beating.
The old man had closed his eyes again. And yet the rigid forefinger
remained raised, and the faint smile touched at the corners of his
mouth. Buck Daniels sat lunging forward in his chair, his knees
supporting his elbows, and scowled up at the window with a sort of
sullen terror.
Then Byrne heard it--so small a voice that at first he thought it was
only a part of the silence. It grew and grew--in a sudden burst it was
clear to every ear--the honking of the wild geese!
And Byrne knew the picture they made. He could see them far up in the
sky--a dim triangle of winter grey--moving with the beat of lightning
wings each in an arrowy flight north, and north, and north.
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