My eyes
closed, but for long I did not sleep. I heard a night-hawk go by on
a lonely mission, a beaver slide from a log into the water, and the
delicate humming of the pine needles was a drowsy music, through
which broke by-and-bye the strange crying of a loon from the water
below. I was neither asleep nor awake, but steeped in this wide
awe of night, the sweet smell of earth and running water in my
nostrils. Once, too, in a slight breeze, the scent of some wild
animal's nest near by came past, and I found it good. I lifted up
a handful of loose earth and powdered leaves, and held it to my
nose--a good, brave smell--all in a sort of drowsing.
While I mused, Doltaire's face passed before me as it was in
life, and I heard him say again of the peasants, "These shall save
the earth some day, for they are of it, and live close to it, and
are kin to it."
Suddenly there rushed before me that scene in the convent, when
all the devil in him broke loose upon the woman I loved. But,
turning on my homely bed, I looked up and saw the deep quiet of the
skies, the stable peace of the stars, and I was a son of the good
Earth again, a sojourner in the tents of Home. I did not doubt that
Alixe was alive or that I should find her. There was assurance in
this benignant night. In that thought, dreaming that her cheek lay
close to mine, her arm around my neck, I fell asleep.
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