He took the candle, raised her face with his hand under the chin and held the light close to it.
"I cannot see much," he said; "I can see scarce anything of the dear face, of the great brown eyes I loved so well; I can see only something flame there. That is the cap." He took it off and passed his hand through her rich hair. "I can see, I think I can see, the flicker of the candle flame in the eyes. I can see the mouth, that mouth I have never touched, but I see it only as a red evening cloud across the sky."
"Let me go!" she wailed. "My mother! my mother!"
"We will go together to her," he answered; "stay one moment."
He put down the candle, and once more laid his hand on her head, and now he pressed it back with his left hand. Did she see in the dull eyes a gathering moisture, the rising of a tide? A tear ran down each of his rugged cheeks. Then he suddenly rose, and he struck her full in the forehead with his iron fist, heavy as a sledge hammer. She dropped in a heap on the floor.
"Glory! my own, own Glory!" he cried, and listened.
There was no answer.
"Glory! my love! my pride! my second self! my double!"
He caught her up, and she hung across his knee. He held his ear to her mouth and hearkened.
"Oh, Glory! my own! my own!"
He stretched his hand above the mantelpiece and plucked down the chain and padlock; he secured the key. Then he cast the chain over his arm and drew the inanimate girl to him and held her in his firm grasp, and lifted her over his shoulder, and felt his way out at the door and down the steps.
No one was in the yard. No one on the pasture.
The sun had set some time, but there was blood and fire on the horizon, clouds seamed with flame, and streaks of burning crimson.
He cautiously descended the stairs, and crossing the yard, made his way over the pasture to the landing place. He knew the path well. He could have trod it in the darkest night without error. He came to the sea-wall, and there
