The
stream itself swept sullenly through the night,--a resistless flood of
dismal power, as if, turbid with wrecked souls, with the lost hopes and
ruined dreams of men, it was fit only to bear vessels freighted with
sorrow, misfortune, and despair.
The manner of the man at the window was as if some woeful spirit of the
melancholy scene were calling him. With head bowed, and face turned a
little to one side, he listened intently as one listens to voices that
are muffled and indistinct. He pressed his face close to the glass, and
with straining eyes tried to see more clearly the ghostly trees, the
sombre hills, and the gloomy river. Three times he turned from the
window to pace to and fro in the darkened room, and every time his steps
brought him again to the casement, as if in obedience to some insistent
voice that summoned him. The fourth time, he turned from the window more
quickly, with a gesture of assenting decision.
The crackling snap of a match broke the dead stillness. The sudden flare
of light stabbed the darkness. As he applied the tiny, wavering flame
to the wick of a lamp that stood on the cheap, old-fashioned bureau, the
man's hand shook until the chimney rattled against the wire standards of
the burner. Turning quickly from the lighted lamp, the man sprang again
to the window to jerk down the tattered, old shade.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25