With it came
a sharper tang of smoke, and the widening light of day was
fighting to hold its own against the deepening pall of flame-lit
gloom advancing with the wind.
There seemed to come a low and distant sound with that wind, so
indistinct that to David's ears it was like a murmur a thousand
miles away. He strained his ears to hear, and as he listened,
there came another sound--a moaning, sobbing voice below his
window! It was grief he heard now, something that went to his
heart and held him cold and still. The voice was sobbing like that
of a child, yet he knew it was not a child's. Nor was it a
woman's. A figure came out slowly in his view, humped over,
twisted in its shape, and he recognized Andre, the Broken Man.
David could see that he was crying like a child, and he was facing
the flaming forests, with his arms reaching out to them in his
moaning. Then, of a sudden, he gave a strange cry, as if defiance
had taken the place of grief, and he hurried across the meadow and
disappeared into the timber where a great lightning-riven spruce
gleamed dully white through the settling veil of smoke-mist.
For a space David looked after him, a strange beating in his
heart.
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