University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Day is breaking in the East, and the morning
mists glide like phantoms over the broad Delaware.
The grey light of the dawn steals
through the curtains of the chamber, struggling
with the beams of the lamp which
stands near the bed on yonder table.

A sad sight awaits us.

True, the chamber is luxuriously furnished:
the richly papered walls bloom with the
warm creations of the artist's thought; the
curtains of the high windows are of satin and
gold; the carpet from the looms of Smyrna;
the bed itself with hangings of white satin and
pillows of down, presents an image of voluptuous
repose; it is imbued with an atmosphere
of luxury and quiet splendor, and yet another
atmosphere is stealing slowly into the place,
and covering all things with its vague, chilling
mist.

It is the atmosphere of Death.

Beside the bed—the damps of Laurell Hill
yet fresh upon his attire—is John of Prairie
Eden, his face wearing a dead stupor, an apathy
of despair, which blunts its well defined
outlines, and covers his eyes as with a glossy
film.

The sorrow is too crushing for him to feel
it now. He cannot feel it, cannot believe,
the air seems but a mass of whirling phantoms;
it is not reality, but a dream.

A dream; and yet to-morrow.

Isora lies upon the snowy coverlet of that
bed. Her form but half-clad, she rests with
her hands folded, her white bosom gleaming
ing the light, her eyes closed, the fringes reposing
on the colorless cheek, her hair descending
over her shoulders, and resting in
glossy curls upon her arms.

Does she breathe? Ah, the bosom seems
pulseless, cold.

A faint trembling of the lower lip, alone attests
that the soul is quivering there, ere it
departs forever.

So gently she dies, that it but seems like
gliding into a pleasant sleep. So softly passes
her soul away, that it seems a lilly torn from
its stem and cast upon a smooth lake that
bears it tenderly upon its breast and ripples in
low music round it as it floats along.

At last her lids unclose; how black, how
flashing, how beauliful those death-dewed
eyes.

`Juan!'

She knew him and reached forth her hand.

He took it, pressed it to his lips and bosom;
it was wet with moisture from the kiss
of Death.

`Juan, I am going. Ever since the day
when the rite of the church blessed our union
I have felt a burning here—'

He laid her little hand upon her naked bosom.

`Last night, when I came home, I laid me
down to sleep, and felt that in that sleep, my
soul was going fast away; yet I could not,
until now unclose my eyes, or manifest by any
sign I knew you were here. I heard your
groans, Juan, your prayers, I felt your tears
upon my cheek, but could not speak to you.
A few moments now are given to me, and
let me lay my head upon your breast, and
wind my arms about your neck, and die. My
heart shall beat against yours when it flutters
its last; my last breath mingle with your kiss.
I am so happy, so much peace! Do not
weep, Juan; there is a bright angel at the
foot of toe bed, who lifts his white wings and
says, `Come!'

He had taken her to his breast and wound
her arms about his neck—ah! they were so
cold!—and covered his eyes with her silken
hair. But he could not speak.

`When you see my brother, for he will
come, Juan—tell him that I spoke of him to
the last, and died so happy because I knew
that he had forgiven me! Tell him—ah!
Juan, my arms are cold, I cannot move my
fingers. Is it dark, Juan, or have my eyes
been covered by a veil?'

Over his shoulder she raised her head,
glaring around with her large, deep eyes.—
They were glassy—a misty film shrouded
their dazzling brightness.

How her slight form rocked as his broad
chest heaved, and struggled, and fell, with the
overwhelming agony of that hour. Yet he
spoke not, but grasping her hair, swept its
glossy masses over his eyes, and wept aloud.

`It is dark, Juan—I cannot see you. Holy
Virgin! Mary, Mother of God, pity and forgive
me, a weak, weak child! Closer, Juan,
kiss me. Ice upon my heart, Juan, ice; but
I can feel your lips; your breath warms my
cheek; My brother, Juan, tell him—ah!
the white angel lifts his wings—I see him now
—It is light again! Come! come!'

A trembling flutter of the lips, and the
white angel has borne a spirit home.

Those icy arms are round his neck, that
icy breast against his own; the glassy eyes,
how cold, how dead they glare; the lips that
are pressed to his, are chilled and colorless
forever.

Still he tries to dry the tears with the soft
masses of her silken hair and kisses her cold
lips, as if to win back the departed soul.

Little did the proud, revengeful man imagine
this hour, when in her home of Vera
Cruz, he cruelly planned her shame. That he
should ever weep hot, scalding tears for the
sister of Don Antonio; that he should love
her better than life, or what to the proud heart
is worth all, revenge; and press her dead
breast to his heart, and drench her silken hair
with the baptism of her agony.

May be some white angel had changed his

breast, and turned the blight of his revenge
into a blessing fresh from God.

She died, the victim of a rapid and imperceptible
decay, but died without knowing that
her brother was the writhing wretch of the
Aztec vanlt of Sacrificios; the Destroyer o
Prairie Eden, its beautiful maiden, white
haired old man and blue-eyed boy.

For that ignorance which hailed her dying
hour, let us bless the white angel, who lifted
its wings as she grew cold and whispered
`Come!'