white face and tangled auburn hair; it is floating
down with the current. People are passing to
and fro on the bridge, the clock strikes in the town
hall, and the dead body drifts slowly down the red
stream far into the shadows of the coming night—under
the bridge, across which the crowd is hurrying, bent
on pleasure and business, past the tall warehouses
where rich merchants are counting their gains, under
the shadow of the big steamers with their tall masts
and smoky funnels. Now it is caught in the reeds
at the side of the stream; no, the current carries
it out again, and so down the foul river, with the
hum of the city on each side and the red sky above,
drifts the dead body on its way to the sea. The
red dies out of the sky, the veil of night descends,
and under the cold starlight—cold and cruel
as his own nature—that which was once Gaston
Vandeloup floats away into the still shadows.
