Audrey

Haward gazed at the climbing moon and at the wide and universal dimness of

the world beneath; then turned to the negro, and pointed to a few low

trees growing at the eastern end of the plateau.

"Fasten the horses there, Juba," he said. "We will wait upon this hilltop

until morning. When the light comes, we may be able to see the clearing or

the smoke from the cabin."

When the horses had been tethered, master and man lay down upon the grass.

It was so still upon the hilltop, and the heavens pressed so closely, that

the slave grew restless and strove to make talk. Failing in this, he began

to croon a savage, mournful air, and presently, forgetting himself, to

sing outright.

"Be quiet!" ordered his master. "There may be Indians abroad."

The song came to an end as abruptly as it lad begun, and the singer,

having nothing better to do, went fast asleep. His companion, more

wakeful, lay with his hands behind his head and his eyes upon the splendor

of the firmament. Lying so, he could not see the valleys nor the looming

mountains. There were only the dome of the sky, the grass, and himself.

He stared at the moon, and made pictures of her shadowy places; then fell

to thinking of the morrow, and of the possibility that after all he might

never find again the cabin in the valley. While he laughed at this

supposition, yet he played with it. He was in a mood to think the loss of

the trail of the expedition no great matter. The woods were full of game,

the waters of fish; he and Juba had only to keep their faces to the

eastward, and a fortnight at most would bring them to the settlements. But

the valleys folded among the hills were many; what if the one he sought

should still elude him? What if the cabin, the sugar-tree, the crystal

stream, had sunk from sight, like the city in one of Monsieur Gralland's

fantastic tales? Perhaps they had done so,--the spot had all the air of a

bit of fairyland,--and the woodland maid was gone to walk with the elves.

Well, perchance for her it would be better so. And yet it would be

pleasant if she should climb the hillside now and sit beside him, with her

shy dark eyes and floating hair. Her hair was long and fine, and the wind

would lift it; her face was fair, and another than the wind should kiss

it. The night would not then be so slow in going.

He turned upon his side, and looked along the grassy summit to the woods

upon the opposite slope and to the distant mountains. Dull silver,

immutable, perpetual, they reared themselves to meet the moonbeams.

Between him and those stern and changeless fronts, pallid as with snows,

stretched the gray woods. The moon shone very brightly, and there was no

wind. So unearthly was the quiet of the night, so solemn the light, so

high and still and calm the universe around him, that awe fell upon his

soul. It was well to lie upon the hilltop and guess at the riddle of the

world; now dimly to see the meaning, now to lose it quite, to wonder, to

think of death. The easy consciousness that for him death was scores of

years away, that he should not meet the spectre until the wine was all

drunken, the garlands withered, and he, the guest, ready to depart, made

these speculations not at all unpleasing. He looked at his hand, blanched

by the moonlight, lying beside him upon the grass, and thought how like a

dead hand it seemed, and what if he could not move it, nor his body, nor

could ever rise from the grass, but must lie there upon the lonely hilltop

in the untrodden wilderness, until that which had ridden and hunted and

passed so buoyantly through life should become but a few dry bones, a

handful of dust. He was of his time, and its laxness of principle and

conduct; if he held within himself the potential scholar, statesman, and

philosopher, there were also the skeptic, the egotist, and the libertine.

He followed the fashion and disbelieved much, but he knew that if he died

to-night his soul would not stay with his body upon the hilltop. He

wondered, somewhat grimly, what it would do when so much that had clothed

it round--pride of life, love of pleasure, desire, ambition--should be

plucked away. Poor soul! Surely it would feel itself something shrunken,

stripped of warmth, shiveringly bare to all the winds of heaven. The

radiance of the moon usurped the sky, but behind that veil of light the

invisible and multitudinous stars were shining. Beyond those stars were

other stars, beyond those yet others; on and on went the stars, wise men

said. Beyond them all, what then? And where was the place of the soul?

What would it do? What heaven or hell would it find or make for itself?

Guesswork all!