It was
a solemn time--the full tide lapping up on the long yellow sand
from the wide sea darkening out to the dim horizon: the gentle
wind blowing through the molten darkness; overhead, the great vault
without arch or keystone, of dim liquid blue, and sown with worlds
so far removed they could only shine; and, on the shore, the centre
of all the cosmic order, a misshapen heap of man, a tumulus in which
lay buried a live and lovely soul! The one pillar of its chapter
house had given way, and the downrushing ruin had so crushed
and distorted it, that thenceforth until some resurrection should
arrive, disorder and misshape must appear to it the law of the
universe, and loveliness but the passing dream of a brain glad to
deceive its own misery, and so to fancy it had received from above
what it had itself generated of its own poverty from below. To
the mind's eye of Malcolm, the little hump on the sand was heaved
to the stars, higher than ever Roman tomb or Egyptian pyramid,
in silent appeal to the sweet heavens, a dumb prayer for pity, a
visible groan for the resurrection of the body. For a few minutes
he sat as still as the prostrate laird.
But bethinking himself that his grandfather would not go to bed until
he went back, also that the laird was in no danger, as the tide
was now receding, he resolved to go and get the old man to bed,
and then return. For somehow he felt in his heart that he ought
not to leave him alone. He could not enter into his strife to aid
him, or come near him in any closer way than watching by his side
until his morning dawned, or at least the waters of his flood
assuaged, yet what he could he must: he would wake with him in his
conflict.
Pages:
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209