And seeing her grief, his heart breaking with pity,
a strange impulse came to Thyrsis. He took her
hands in his, and knelt down before her, and began
to pray. It had been years since he had thought
of prayer, and Corydon had never thought of it in her
life. It came from the deeps of him—a
few stammering words, simple, almost childish, yet
exquisite as music. He prayed that they might
have courage to keep up the fight, that they might
be able to hold their love before them, that nothing
might ever dim their vision of each other. It
was a prayer without theology or metaphysics—a
prayer to the unknown gods; but it set free the well-spring
of tenderness and pity within them; and when he finished
Corydon was sobbing upon his shoulder.
THE CAPTIVE IN LEASH
They were standing on the hill-top, watching the
last glimmer of the sinking moon. As the faint
perfume of the clover came to them upon the warm evening
wind, she sighed, and whispered—
“Too rare, too rare, grow
now my visits here!
’Mid city noise, not as with thee of
yore,
Thyrsis! in reach of sheep-bells is my
home!”
She paused.
“Go on,” he said, and she quoted—
“Then through the great town’s
harsh, heart-wearying roar,
Let in thy voice a whisper always come,
To chase fatigue and fear:
Why faintest thou? I wandered till I died.
Roam on! The light we sought is shining
still."_
Section 1. Thyrsis made his plans and packed
his few belongings. There came another pass from
the “higher regions”, and he took the
night-train once more, and came to the little town
upon the shores of Lake Ontario. Once more the
sun shone on the crystal-green water, and the cold
breeze blew from off the lake. There was still
snow in the ravines of the deep woods, but Thyrsis
got his tent out of the farmer’s barn, and patched
up the holes the mice had gnawed, and put it up on
the old familiar spot.
It was strange to him to be there without Corydon.
There were so many things to remind him of her—a
sudden memory would catch him unawares, and stab him
like a knife. There was the rocky headland where
they had swam, and there was the pine-tree that the
lightning had splintered, one day while they were
standing near. When darkness came, and he was
unpacking a few old things that they had left up in
the country, his loneliness seemed to him almost more
than he could bear; he sat by the little stove, holding
a pair of her old faded slippers in his hands, and
felt his tears trickling down upon them.
But it took him only a day or two to drive such things
out of his mind. There was no time for sentiment
now—it was “Clear ship for action!”
For once in his life he was free, and had a chance
to work. He was full of his talk with Mr. Ardsley,
and meant to do his best to be “practical.”
And so behold him wandering about in the water-soaked
forests, or tramping the muddy roads, or sitting by
his little stove while the cold storms beat upon the
tent—wrestling with his unruly Pegasus,
and dragging it back a hundred times a day to what
was proper, and human, and interesting!
