His voice broke, and he hurried on; the other two felt their own eyes dimmed, as the picture came before them,—the lonely girl lying down to sleep under God’s kind sky, with the wild lamb in her arms.
Still on, in silence now. They had made a circuit, and were coming near the sea again, but through rougher, wilder ways. Deep gorges dropped away before them, black as night, with huge boulders wedged across them; in the wider ones a tiny strip of green, with fresh water trickling down. Here they came to a broad meadow, with black spruces, and rocks of orange-tawny lichen glowing like flame. Again, they found themselves in a moss or bog, with rounded tufts, soft and springy, and purple flags nodding here and there; while higher up (for June had come again) they saw the scarlet sorrel spread like a gay mantle on the great hill shoulder.
At the foot of one of these huge shoulders Joe Brazybone paused, and dropped his head, questing silently; then, with a gesture of caution, he led the way upward.
“Do not call!” they had said in the village. “If you call, or startle her, she will go crazed, if she is not already.”
Joe knew that well, and from time to time he turned fiercely on his companions, almost threatening in his earnest gestures. He would gladly have bidden them stay below, and let him go alone to find his mistress; but he knew, poor Joe, in his humble, dog-like understanding, he knew his voice was not the one that Isla would be most likely to listen to, that his face was not the one to please her best, coming suddenly into her solitude. “Gentle folks wants their like,” he said, patiently to himself. “Old Joe ain’t the proper person to speak first to his young lady, supposin’ she’s willin’ to be spoke to.”
Could they but move silently! The grass was soft and new, and made no sound, but here and there lay dry leaves of last year, caught in the roots of the trees and held there against the blasts that sweep and tear through the winter; these crackled if one touched them; now and again a twig snapped, for the preacher’s dress, gather it close as she could about her, would sometimes float and catch as she passed. Up the huge crag they went, drawing their very breath in fear; and now, Joe, who reached the summit first, flung back his hand, half beckoning, half warning. The others crept nearer. The rock was crested with spruce and cedar; peering though the black fringes, they saw a tiny circle hollowed, carpeted with russet needles and velvet moss, with strawberry and twin-flower creeping together. Here Isla was sitting, braiding her long hair. A leaf, half full of wild strawberries, lay beside her, and with it the broken half of the shell bracelet. Her face was worn with pain, her eyes were dark and soft, with the look of many tears. The black trees bent over her, pressed round her, as if sheltering and protecting her. It was as if she had sought this little secret chamber of the wild rocks, sure of protection and solitude. Who should dare to speak to the island child?