Lost in the Mountains.See you that[373]yellow thread, that, snake-like, windsHigh up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,Now lost[374]to view amid the shelving cragsAnd stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just whereWe stand,[375]I stood one Autumn day, and heardThe legend from an aged mountaineer,And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,Like this the story ran:Mark Lysle, a rich,Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose redRoof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and thoughYou see a light, blue plume of smoke aboveThe chimney top, yet other hearts now sitAbout the hearth and watch its glow, for thatBright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died outOne stormy night, never to burn again.For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fameOf Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,His open house and hospitalities,Were themes discussed no less than were his quickResentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness toAvenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,And read the truth within her hazel eyes,Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of characterHis antipode, his very opposite—A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,So like her mother—an exotic frail,A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro hutsGleamed white amid the evergreens; the manHer father called his chosen friend, this man,Her senior by a score of years, and illOf feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimedIt by a compact with her father madeBefore her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,Whose only statute was her father’s will,Thus far had viewed her marriage in the lightOf something that she might escape, a thingShe might avoid, that would not come to pass;As those condemned to death will hope when hopeIs dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,And comfort took in hoping that it wouldNot be; and though his would-be gallantriesOft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provokedA loathing in her breast, she hated not.Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:A sudden cry aroused them both in timeTo see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]Across the road and leap the hedge. While yetThey stood amazed some field hands moving slow,Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing betweenTheir swarthy forms the helpless body ofA man. With almost woman’s tendernessMark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youthBorne to his choicest room, and summoned quickA surgeon, nor would rest until assuredHis uninvited guest was doing well,As well as one with broken limb could do.Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;The grain is garnered, and a late bee wingsIts way across the porch. Young Clair and MaudStand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines fullUpon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,And hers all tenderness and sympathy:His time to go has come; this night will beHis last beneath her father’s roof. In twoShort months, by merest chance, their youthful heartsHave learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.They glide away[388]unseen.That night when allWere gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,In tones that fell like death upon the earsOf those who heard him speak, announcedIt as his will,[389]that on the coming dayHis daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deemIt time to go, I shall not press you toRemain, but bid you speed upon your way,”And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]“Farewell,[391]Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we mustNot say good-bye; to leave you now would beTo part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sankInto a whisper; then, with one pure kissIn haste imprinted on her brow, he leftThe room, and then the house.The tall, old clockThat in the hallway stood, was striking nineAs Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark cloudsWere rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashedFrom out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomedAnd rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the starsO’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the stormHad burst. “To wed the hand and not the heartIs sin, far greater than to disobey.May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as allAlone she sped across the fields to reachYon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,That when she came they both might mount his steed,And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming theyWould choose that fearful path for flight.The sunShone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,Gone—to return no more.The dark night through,Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliffHad watched and listened for his promised bride;Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”But never came reply.Again, “Here, Maud!”Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.At dawn of day, and fearing that she couldNot brave the storm, all wan and pale he rodeSwift down the steep descent to learn the worst.He scarce had reached the narrow valley roadEre Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horseIn terror bore him up[406]the winding path.“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grimWith jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and thenThe throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.A cry!Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rockThat shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s workOn pedestal of stone, young Henri ClairSat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]The deep abyss. In horror peered they allBelow, where lay the object of his gaze—The white, the lifeless form of Maud.The spellWas broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threwHis mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]And to this day the story still is toldOf trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voiceCall tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”—George M. Vickers.Gestures.[373]Ind. A. O.[374]Drop hand.[375]D. O.[376]Left H. O.[377]B. H. O.[378]H. O.[379]Left H. O.[380]H. Sw.[381]V. H. O.[382]H. Sw.[383]H. F.[384]A. O.[385]H. F.[386]B. H. F.[387]Left H. O.[388]Left H. Sw.[389]D. F.[390]H. Sw.[391]Turn to Right.[392]Turn to Left.[393]H. F.[394]Raise hand P. H. L.[395]H. L.[396]H. Sw.[397]V. A. O.[398]Hand on heart.[399]A. O.[400]P. D. O.[401]Point up.[402]Bend over.[403]B. H. O. and turn them to P.[404]P. Ind. H. F.[405]Raise eyes.[406]A. F.[407]A. F.[408]A. O.[409]P. H. O.[410]P. D. O.[411]Point down.[412]Draw rein with left hand.[413]D. F.
Lost in the Mountains.See you that[373]yellow thread, that, snake-like, windsHigh up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,Now lost[374]to view amid the shelving cragsAnd stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just whereWe stand,[375]I stood one Autumn day, and heardThe legend from an aged mountaineer,And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,Like this the story ran:Mark Lysle, a rich,Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose redRoof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and thoughYou see a light, blue plume of smoke aboveThe chimney top, yet other hearts now sitAbout the hearth and watch its glow, for thatBright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died outOne stormy night, never to burn again.For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fameOf Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,His open house and hospitalities,Were themes discussed no less than were his quickResentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness toAvenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,And read the truth within her hazel eyes,Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of characterHis antipode, his very opposite—A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,So like her mother—an exotic frail,A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro hutsGleamed white amid the evergreens; the manHer father called his chosen friend, this man,Her senior by a score of years, and illOf feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimedIt by a compact with her father madeBefore her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,Whose only statute was her father’s will,Thus far had viewed her marriage in the lightOf something that she might escape, a thingShe might avoid, that would not come to pass;As those condemned to death will hope when hopeIs dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,And comfort took in hoping that it wouldNot be; and though his would-be gallantriesOft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provokedA loathing in her breast, she hated not.Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:A sudden cry aroused them both in timeTo see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]Across the road and leap the hedge. While yetThey stood amazed some field hands moving slow,Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing betweenTheir swarthy forms the helpless body ofA man. With almost woman’s tendernessMark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youthBorne to his choicest room, and summoned quickA surgeon, nor would rest until assuredHis uninvited guest was doing well,As well as one with broken limb could do.Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;The grain is garnered, and a late bee wingsIts way across the porch. Young Clair and MaudStand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines fullUpon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,And hers all tenderness and sympathy:His time to go has come; this night will beHis last beneath her father’s roof. In twoShort months, by merest chance, their youthful heartsHave learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.They glide away[388]unseen.That night when allWere gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,In tones that fell like death upon the earsOf those who heard him speak, announcedIt as his will,[389]that on the coming dayHis daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deemIt time to go, I shall not press you toRemain, but bid you speed upon your way,”And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]“Farewell,[391]Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we mustNot say good-bye; to leave you now would beTo part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sankInto a whisper; then, with one pure kissIn haste imprinted on her brow, he leftThe room, and then the house.The tall, old clockThat in the hallway stood, was striking nineAs Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark cloudsWere rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashedFrom out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomedAnd rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the starsO’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the stormHad burst. “To wed the hand and not the heartIs sin, far greater than to disobey.May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as allAlone she sped across the fields to reachYon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,That when she came they both might mount his steed,And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming theyWould choose that fearful path for flight.The sunShone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,Gone—to return no more.The dark night through,Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliffHad watched and listened for his promised bride;Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”But never came reply.Again, “Here, Maud!”Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.At dawn of day, and fearing that she couldNot brave the storm, all wan and pale he rodeSwift down the steep descent to learn the worst.He scarce had reached the narrow valley roadEre Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horseIn terror bore him up[406]the winding path.“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grimWith jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and thenThe throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.A cry!Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rockThat shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s workOn pedestal of stone, young Henri ClairSat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]The deep abyss. In horror peered they allBelow, where lay the object of his gaze—The white, the lifeless form of Maud.The spellWas broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threwHis mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]And to this day the story still is toldOf trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voiceCall tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”—George M. Vickers.Gestures.[373]Ind. A. O.[374]Drop hand.[375]D. O.[376]Left H. O.[377]B. H. O.[378]H. O.[379]Left H. O.[380]H. Sw.[381]V. H. O.[382]H. Sw.[383]H. F.[384]A. O.[385]H. F.[386]B. H. F.[387]Left H. O.[388]Left H. Sw.[389]D. F.[390]H. Sw.[391]Turn to Right.[392]Turn to Left.[393]H. F.[394]Raise hand P. H. L.[395]H. L.[396]H. Sw.[397]V. A. O.[398]Hand on heart.[399]A. O.[400]P. D. O.[401]Point up.[402]Bend over.[403]B. H. O. and turn them to P.[404]P. Ind. H. F.[405]Raise eyes.[406]A. F.[407]A. F.[408]A. O.[409]P. H. O.[410]P. D. O.[411]Point down.[412]Draw rein with left hand.[413]D. F.
See you that[373]yellow thread, that, snake-like, windsHigh up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,Now lost[374]to view amid the shelving cragsAnd stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just whereWe stand,[375]I stood one Autumn day, and heardThe legend from an aged mountaineer,And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,Like this the story ran:Mark Lysle, a rich,Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose redRoof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and thoughYou see a light, blue plume of smoke aboveThe chimney top, yet other hearts now sitAbout the hearth and watch its glow, for thatBright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died outOne stormy night, never to burn again.For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fameOf Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,His open house and hospitalities,Were themes discussed no less than were his quickResentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness toAvenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,And read the truth within her hazel eyes,Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of characterHis antipode, his very opposite—A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,So like her mother—an exotic frail,A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro hutsGleamed white amid the evergreens; the manHer father called his chosen friend, this man,Her senior by a score of years, and illOf feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimedIt by a compact with her father madeBefore her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,Whose only statute was her father’s will,Thus far had viewed her marriage in the lightOf something that she might escape, a thingShe might avoid, that would not come to pass;As those condemned to death will hope when hopeIs dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,And comfort took in hoping that it wouldNot be; and though his would-be gallantriesOft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provokedA loathing in her breast, she hated not.Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:A sudden cry aroused them both in timeTo see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]Across the road and leap the hedge. While yetThey stood amazed some field hands moving slow,Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing betweenTheir swarthy forms the helpless body ofA man. With almost woman’s tendernessMark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youthBorne to his choicest room, and summoned quickA surgeon, nor would rest until assuredHis uninvited guest was doing well,As well as one with broken limb could do.Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;The grain is garnered, and a late bee wingsIts way across the porch. Young Clair and MaudStand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines fullUpon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,And hers all tenderness and sympathy:His time to go has come; this night will beHis last beneath her father’s roof. In twoShort months, by merest chance, their youthful heartsHave learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.They glide away[388]unseen.That night when allWere gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,In tones that fell like death upon the earsOf those who heard him speak, announcedIt as his will,[389]that on the coming dayHis daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deemIt time to go, I shall not press you toRemain, but bid you speed upon your way,”And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]“Farewell,[391]Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we mustNot say good-bye; to leave you now would beTo part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sankInto a whisper; then, with one pure kissIn haste imprinted on her brow, he leftThe room, and then the house.The tall, old clockThat in the hallway stood, was striking nineAs Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark cloudsWere rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashedFrom out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomedAnd rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the starsO’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the stormHad burst. “To wed the hand and not the heartIs sin, far greater than to disobey.May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as allAlone she sped across the fields to reachYon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,That when she came they both might mount his steed,And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming theyWould choose that fearful path for flight.The sunShone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,Gone—to return no more.The dark night through,Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliffHad watched and listened for his promised bride;Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”But never came reply.Again, “Here, Maud!”Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.At dawn of day, and fearing that she couldNot brave the storm, all wan and pale he rodeSwift down the steep descent to learn the worst.He scarce had reached the narrow valley roadEre Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horseIn terror bore him up[406]the winding path.“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grimWith jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and thenThe throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.A cry!Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rockThat shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s workOn pedestal of stone, young Henri ClairSat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]The deep abyss. In horror peered they allBelow, where lay the object of his gaze—The white, the lifeless form of Maud.The spellWas broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threwHis mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]And to this day the story still is toldOf trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voiceCall tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”—George M. Vickers.
See you that[373]yellow thread, that, snake-like, windsHigh up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,Now lost[374]to view amid the shelving cragsAnd stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just whereWe stand,[375]I stood one Autumn day, and heardThe legend from an aged mountaineer,And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,Like this the story ran:Mark Lysle, a rich,Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose redRoof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and thoughYou see a light, blue plume of smoke aboveThe chimney top, yet other hearts now sitAbout the hearth and watch its glow, for thatBright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died outOne stormy night, never to burn again.For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fameOf Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,His open house and hospitalities,Were themes discussed no less than were his quickResentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness toAvenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,And read the truth within her hazel eyes,Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of characterHis antipode, his very opposite—A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,So like her mother—an exotic frail,A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro hutsGleamed white amid the evergreens; the manHer father called his chosen friend, this man,Her senior by a score of years, and illOf feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimedIt by a compact with her father madeBefore her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,Whose only statute was her father’s will,Thus far had viewed her marriage in the lightOf something that she might escape, a thingShe might avoid, that would not come to pass;As those condemned to death will hope when hopeIs dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,And comfort took in hoping that it wouldNot be; and though his would-be gallantriesOft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provokedA loathing in her breast, she hated not.Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:A sudden cry aroused them both in timeTo see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]Across the road and leap the hedge. While yetThey stood amazed some field hands moving slow,Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing betweenTheir swarthy forms the helpless body ofA man. With almost woman’s tendernessMark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youthBorne to his choicest room, and summoned quickA surgeon, nor would rest until assuredHis uninvited guest was doing well,As well as one with broken limb could do.Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;The grain is garnered, and a late bee wingsIts way across the porch. Young Clair and MaudStand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines fullUpon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,And hers all tenderness and sympathy:His time to go has come; this night will beHis last beneath her father’s roof. In twoShort months, by merest chance, their youthful heartsHave learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.They glide away[388]unseen.That night when allWere gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,In tones that fell like death upon the earsOf those who heard him speak, announcedIt as his will,[389]that on the coming dayHis daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deemIt time to go, I shall not press you toRemain, but bid you speed upon your way,”And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]“Farewell,[391]Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we mustNot say good-bye; to leave you now would beTo part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sankInto a whisper; then, with one pure kissIn haste imprinted on her brow, he leftThe room, and then the house.The tall, old clockThat in the hallway stood, was striking nineAs Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark cloudsWere rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashedFrom out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomedAnd rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the starsO’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the stormHad burst. “To wed the hand and not the heartIs sin, far greater than to disobey.May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as allAlone she sped across the fields to reachYon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,That when she came they both might mount his steed,And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming theyWould choose that fearful path for flight.The sunShone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,Gone—to return no more.The dark night through,Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliffHad watched and listened for his promised bride;Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”But never came reply.Again, “Here, Maud!”Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.At dawn of day, and fearing that she couldNot brave the storm, all wan and pale he rodeSwift down the steep descent to learn the worst.He scarce had reached the narrow valley roadEre Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horseIn terror bore him up[406]the winding path.“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grimWith jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and thenThe throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.A cry!Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rockThat shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s workOn pedestal of stone, young Henri ClairSat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]The deep abyss. In horror peered they allBelow, where lay the object of his gaze—The white, the lifeless form of Maud.The spellWas broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threwHis mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]And to this day the story still is toldOf trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voiceCall tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”—George M. Vickers.
See you that[373]yellow thread, that, snake-like, winds
High up the mountain side, now hid, now seen,
Now lost[374]to view amid the shelving crags
And stunted pines? That is a rugged pass,
Called, hereabouts, The Devil’s Trail. Just where
We stand,[375]I stood one Autumn day, and heard
The legend from an aged mountaineer,
And, as my mem’ry serves me, word for word,
Like this the story ran:
Mark Lysle, a rich,Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose redRoof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and thoughYou see a light, blue plume of smoke aboveThe chimney top, yet other hearts now sitAbout the hearth and watch its glow, for thatBright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died outOne stormy night, never to burn again.For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fameOf Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,His open house and hospitalities,Were themes discussed no less than were his quickResentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness toAvenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,And read the truth within her hazel eyes,Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of characterHis antipode, his very opposite—A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,So like her mother—an exotic frail,A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.
Mark Lysle, a rich,
Eccentric widower, and Maud, his child,
Long years agone, lived in that house[376]whose red
Roof peeps from yonder clump of trees; and though
You see a light, blue plume of smoke above
The chimney top, yet other hearts now sit
About the hearth and watch its glow, for that
Bright fire which blazed when Lysle held sway, died out
One stormy night, never to burn again.
For miles and miles,[377]which way you went, the fame
Of Lysle would greet your ear; his courtesies,
His open house and hospitalities,
Were themes discussed no less than were his quick
Resentment of a fancied slight, his fierce,
Hot temper, when aroused, or swiftness to
Avenge a wrong. But those who knew his child,
Who saw her pure, white brow, her gold brown hair,
And read the truth within her hazel eyes,
Deemed her in ev’ry[378]trait of character
His antipode, his very opposite—
A lion him, and her a sweet gazelle.
Together lived they in that[379]red-roofed house,
He, father, brother, lord and slave by turns:
She, ever steadfast, mild, obedient,
So like her mother—an exotic frail,
A Northern lily ’neath a Southern sun.
One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro hutsGleamed white amid the evergreens; the manHer father called his chosen friend, this man,Her senior by a score of years, and illOf feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimedIt by a compact with her father madeBefore her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,Whose only statute was her father’s will,Thus far had viewed her marriage in the lightOf something that she might escape, a thingShe might avoid, that would not come to pass;As those condemned to death will hope when hopeIs dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,And comfort took in hoping that it wouldNot be; and though his would-be gallantriesOft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provokedA loathing in her breast, she hated not.
One Victor Dale, whose acres joined, and stretched[380]
Far west from Lysle’s estate; whose negro huts
Gleamed white amid the evergreens; the man
Her father called his chosen friend, this man,
Her senior by a score of years, and ill
Of feature, sought the maiden’s hand, nay, claimed
It by a compact with her father made
Before her mother’s death. But Maud, sweet Maud,
Who knew not how to hate, whom duty bound,
Whose only statute was her father’s will,
Thus far had viewed her marriage in the light
Of something that she might escape, a thing
She might avoid, that would not come to pass;
As those condemned to death will hope when hope
Is dead, so hung she on the rosy thought,
And comfort took in hoping that it would
Not be; and though his would-be gallantries
Oft filled her with disgust,[381]and oft provoked
A loathing in her breast, she hated not.
Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:A sudden cry aroused them both in timeTo see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]Across the road and leap the hedge. While yetThey stood amazed some field hands moving slow,Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing betweenTheir swarthy forms the helpless body ofA man. With almost woman’s tendernessMark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youthBorne to his choicest room, and summoned quickA surgeon, nor would rest until assuredHis uninvited guest was doing well,As well as one with broken limb could do.Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.
Once, on a summer day, with book in hand,
Maud sat beneath a tree. Upon the porch,
Reclining on a bamboo chair, her father dozed:
A sudden cry aroused them both in time
To see a horse, with empty saddle, dash[382]
Across the road and leap the hedge. While yet
They stood amazed some field hands moving slow,
Came up the shaded walk[383]bearing between
Their swarthy forms the helpless body of
A man. With almost woman’s tenderness
Mark Lysle made haste to have the wounded youth
Borne to his choicest room, and summoned quick
A surgeon, nor would rest until assured
His uninvited guest was doing well,
As well as one with broken limb could do.
Thus Henri Clair, an artist, far from home,
Was thrust by fate upon a stranger’s care.
The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;The grain is garnered, and a late bee wingsIts way across the porch. Young Clair and MaudStand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines fullUpon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,And hers all tenderness and sympathy:His time to go has come; this night will beHis last beneath her father’s roof. In twoShort months, by merest chance, their youthful heartsHave learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.They glide away[388]unseen.
The leaves[384]have lost their summer hue of green;
The purple grapes in clusters thick hang low;
The grain is garnered, and a late bee wings
Its way across the porch. Young Clair and Maud
Stand side by side[385]; the setting sun shines full
Upon their faces[386]: pale is his and sad,
And hers all tenderness and sympathy:
His time to go has come; this night will be
His last beneath her father’s roof. In two
Short months, by merest chance, their youthful hearts
Have learned to beat as one, yet hopelessly.
Behind a tree[387]two other forms crouch low;
Her father, and her suitor, Victor Dale.
They glide away[388]unseen.
That night when allWere gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,In tones that fell like death upon the earsOf those who heard him speak, announcedIt as his will,[389]that on the coming dayHis daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deemIt time to go, I shall not press you toRemain, but bid you speed upon your way,”And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]
That night when all
Were gathered round the hearth, Mark Lysle,
In tones that fell like death upon the ears
Of those who heard him speak, announced
It as his will,[389]that on the coming day
His daughter Maud should wed his chosen friend;
“And, sir,” said he to Clair, “as you must deem
It time to go, I shall not press you to
Remain, but bid you speed upon your way,”
And then, with haughty bow, strode out.[390]
“Farewell,[391]Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we mustNot say good-bye; to leave you now would beTo part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sankInto a whisper; then, with one pure kissIn haste imprinted on her brow, he leftThe room, and then the house.
“Farewell,[391]
Until we meet again—” “No,[392]Maud, we must
Not say good-bye; to leave you now would be
To part forever,” then young Clair’s voice sank
Into a whisper; then, with one pure kiss
In haste imprinted on her brow, he left
The room, and then the house.
The tall, old clockThat in the hallway stood, was striking nineAs Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark cloudsWere rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashedFrom out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomedAnd rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the starsO’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the stormHad burst. “To wed the hand and not the heartIs sin, far greater than to disobey.May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as allAlone she sped across the fields to reachYon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,That when she came they both might mount his steed,And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming theyWould choose that fearful path for flight.
The tall, old clock
That in the hallway stood, was striking nine
As Maud stole out[393]into the night. Dark clouds
Were rising[394]in the west. The lightning flashed
From out the distant sky;[395]the thunder boomed
And rattled off in echoes ’mong the hills;[396]
The black mass rising soon obscured[397]the stars
O’erhead; then plashing rain drops told the storm
Had burst. “To wed the hand and not the heart
Is sin, far greater than to disobey.
May God forgive me if I err: my heart[398]
Must be my guide.” Thus murmured Maud, as all
Alone she sped across the fields to reach
Yon rugged pass[399]where Clair had gone to wait,
That when she came they both might mount his steed,
And so avoid pursuit, none dreaming they
Would choose that fearful path for flight.
The sunShone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,Gone—to return no more.
The sun
Shone bright. The wet grass gleamed as though bedecked[400]
With gems. The storm had gone; the night had gone,
And she had gone, the star[401]of Mark Lysle’s home,
Gone—to return no more.
The dark night through,Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliffHad watched and listened for his promised bride;Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”But never came reply.
The dark night through,
Young Henri Clair, high on a rocky cliff
Had watched and listened for his promised bride;
Had bended to the rock his ear,[402]had called,
Loud as he dared, “Maud! I am waiting, Maud!”
But never came reply.
Again, “Here, Maud!”Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.At dawn of day, and fearing that she couldNot brave the storm, all wan and pale he rodeSwift down the steep descent to learn the worst.He scarce had reached the narrow valley roadEre Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horseIn terror bore him up[406]the winding path.“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grimWith jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and thenThe throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.
Again, “Here, Maud!”
Then sobbed and sighed the wind,[403]all else was still.
At dawn of day, and fearing that she could
Not brave the storm, all wan and pale he rode
Swift down the steep descent to learn the worst.
He scarce had reached the narrow valley road
Ere Lysle and Dale each bade him halt[404]or die.
Then shouting loud they called the negroes, swore,
And charged him with the maiden’s death or worse.
“She’s lost! O God,[405]she’s lost! Come, follow me!”
Cried Clair; then, struck with cruel spur, his horse
In terror bore him up[406]the winding path.
“I come!” shrieked out his rival, Dale; “I come!”
And off he dashed,[407]his livid face drawn grim
With jealous rage. Then followed Lysle, and then
The throng of blacks, like hounds unleashed.
A cry!Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rockThat shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s workOn pedestal of stone, young Henri ClairSat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]The deep abyss. In horror peered they allBelow, where lay the object of his gaze—The white, the lifeless form of Maud.
A cry!
Again a cry of mortal pain was heard!
The throng pressed up, and round[408]a jutting point,
Till came in view a level breadth[409]of rock
That shelved and overhung a sheer descent[410]
Of awful depth. There, like a sculptor’s work
On pedestal of stone, young Henri Clair
Sat rigid on his steed and pointed down[411]
The deep abyss. In horror peered they all
Below, where lay the object of his gaze—
The white, the lifeless form of Maud.
The spellWas broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threwHis mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]
The spell
Was broke by one wild laugh from Henri’s lips.
With curb he drew[412]his horse erect; he threw
His mantel o’er its head, struck deep his spurs,
And with the shout, “My bride!” leaped down to death.[413]
And to this day the story still is toldOf trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voiceCall tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”—George M. Vickers.
And to this day the story still is told
Of trav’lers, who, belated on the pass,
Have heard, when, softly sobbed the wind, a voice
Call tenderly and low, “I’m waiting, Maud!—
Here, Maud!—Is that you, Maud?”
—George M. Vickers.
Gestures.