But now he whistled
here by the warmth of the fire. To be sure the sound was small and thin,
but there was such music in it as she had never heard before. It was so
thin that it was almost ghostly, as if the soul of wild Paganini played
here on a muted violin. No tune that might be repeated, but as always
when she heard it, a picture rose before the eyes of Kate. It wavered at
first against the yellow glow of the firelight. Then it quite shut out
all else.
It was deep night, starry night. The black horse and his rider wound up
a deep ravine. To one side a bold mountain tumbled up to an infinite
height, bristling with misshapen trees here and there, and losing its
head against the very stars. On the other side were jagged hills, all
carved in the solid rock. And down the valley, between the mountains and
the stars, blew a soft wind; as if that wind made the music. They were
climbing up, up, up, and now they reach--the music rising also to a soft
but triumphant outburst--a high plateau. They were pressed up against
the heart of the sky. The stars burned low, and low. Around them the
whole earth seemed in prospect at their feet. The moon burst through a
mass of clouds, and she saw, far off, a great river running silver
through the night.
Happy? Ay, and he was happy too, and his happiness was one with hers. He
was not even looking out the window while he whistled, but his eyes were
fixed steadily, unchangingly, upon her face.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269