He slipped out of the house; he kept to the flagstone
of the walk; he took to the sage till out of the village, and then he sheered
round to the river trail. With the step and sureness and the eyes of an Indian
he went down through that pitch-black canyon to the river and the ford.
The river seemed absolutely the same as during the day. He peered through the
dark opaqueness of gloom. It moved there, the river he knew, shadowy,
mysterious, murmuring. Bostil went down to the edge of the water, and, sitting
there, he listened. Yes--the voices of the stream were the same. But after a
long time he imagined there was among them an infinitely low voice, as if from
a great distance. He imagined this; he doubted; he made sure; and then all
seemed fancy again. His mind held only one idea and was riveted round it. He
strained his hearing, so long, so intently, that at last he knew he had heard
what he was longing for. Then in the gloom he took to the trail, and returned
home as he had left, stealthily, like an Indian.
But Bostil did not sleep nor rest.
Pages:
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278