My compass lay before me on
the snow, and I could even see its needle; and beyond us the shape of
a white fox that had crept near, scenting food. Then it was gone as
swiftly as it came. Gone too were the symbol and the veil of flame
behind it, only the glow lingered a little on the distant sky.
For awhile there was silence between us, then Leo said--"Do you
remember, Horace, when we lay upon the Rocking Stone where _her_
cloak fell upon me--" as he said the words the breath caught in his
throat--"how the ray of light was sent to us in farewell, and to show us
a path of escape from the Place of Death? Now I think that it has been
sent again in greeting to point out the path to the Place of Life where
Ayesha dwells, whom we have lost awhile."
"It may be so," I answered shortly, for the matter was beyond speech
or argument, beyond wonder even. But I knew then, as I know now that
we were players in some mighty, predestined drama; that our parts were
written and we must speak them, as our path was prepared and we must
tread it to the end unknown. Fear and doubt were left behind, hope was
sunk in certainty; the fore-shadowing visions of the night had found an
actual fulfilment and the pitiful seed of the promise of her who died,
growing unseen through all the cruel, empty years, had come to harvest.
No, we feared no more, not even when with the dawn rose the roaring
wind, through which we struggled down the mountain slopes, as it would
seem in peril of our lives at every step; not even as hour by hour we
fought our way onwards through the whirling snow-storm, that made us
deaf and blind.
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