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MacDonald, George, 1824-1905

"Malcolm"


But not even yet did he cherish any fancy of coming nearer to
her than the idea of absolute service authorized. As often as the
fancy had, compelled by the lady herself, crossed the horizon of
his thoughts, a repellent influence from the same source had been
at hand to sweep it afar into its antenatal chaos. But his love
rose ever from the earth to which the blow had hurled it, purified
again, once more all devotion and no desire, careless of recognition
beyond the acceptance of its offered service, and content that
the be all should be the end all.
The cave seemed the friendliest place he had yet found. Earth herself
had received him into her dark bosom, where no eye could discover
him, and no voice reach him but that of the ocean, as it tossed
and wallowed in the palm of God's hand. He heard its roar on the
rocks around him; and the air was filled with a loud noise of broken
waters, while every now and then the wind rushed with a howl into
the cave, as if searching for him in its crannies; the wild raving
soothed him, and he felt as if he would gladly sit there, in the dark
torn with tumultuous noises, until his fate had unfolded itself.
The noises thickened around him as the tide rose; but so gradually
that, although at length he could not have heard his own voice, he
was unaware of the magnitude to which the mighty uproar had enlarged
itself. Suddenly, something smote the rock as with the hammer of
Thor, and, as suddenly, the air around him grew stifling hot.


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