The Last of the Vikings by John Bowling

Author:John Bowling [Bowling, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-05-07T04:00:00+00:00

* * *

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE TRYST.

"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me."

Gray.

* * *

From the flagstaff on the tower of the castle was to be seen for a little while at midday a pennant, with long streamers fluttering in the breeze. There was no one on the tower at the time but Alice. What is the significance of this? Nothing, apparently, but a freak of fancy. But any one sufficiently observant would notice that Alice takes her stand on the north side of the tower, and, leaning her elbows on the battlements, looks long and eagerly towards yonder grim mountain looming blackly in the hazy distance, whose scarred limestone precipices seem fearful to look upon. But presently there became visible to any one possessed of strong, keen vision, a dark speck of something which had sprung into sight against the clear background of heaven's blue. It seemed perfectly motionless in the air, and might be some bird of prey hovering on poised wing, and watching for its prey. But it was no bird of prey. Alice gave an exclamation of surprise.

"He sees it," she said; "he will be here to-night. Speed away laggard hours that separate me from him! There is music in his voice, and refuge in his strong arms and loving heart!"

She piously uttered a prayer to the saints to guide him. But perhaps, wise one, that prayer was breathed into the idle April breeze—a contribution of nothingness—an impalpable seedling, flung out of a needy human soul, but deposited nowhere, and having fruition never—I trow not, for prayers, like curses, have an assured harvest, and are as surely reaped by the sowers, no inspired vision being requisite to see it done from day to day.

The laggard hours quickly passed, and the lingering twilight deepened into sombre night. The thrushes which carolled to each other from tree to tree as the deepening gloom gathered about them, as though loth to say good-bye to the joyous day, had long since sought their resting-place for the night. Standing beside the old oak in the wood might be seen the form of Oswald, listening intently for sound of human voice or human footfall. Nothing disturbs the silent night air that gives uneasy thoughts to the listener, though there are many sounds distinctly audible to one so familiar with nature, and the woods are most alive now that man has gone to his rest. There is the hurried pattering here and there and everywhere, of game and vermin, or the unhurried crawl of the urchin as he issues from his bed in quest of food. Overhead the bats are flitting in and out amongst the branches of the trees, followed by the heavy beat of the owlet's wing, whose eyes, catlike, are gleaming like live coals in the darkness. In the distance the sharp yelp of the fox proclaims Reynard also to be abroad and busy.

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