The living, breathing face of the most beautiful thing in the world
was speaking to him from out of that picture. His mind was dazed. He
swayed a little. He heard a voice, low and sweet, and so distant that it
came to him like the faintest whisper. "I am coming--I am coming,
Billy--coming--coming--coming--" A joyous cry surged up from his soul,
but it died on his lips in a strange gasp. A louder cry brought him back
to himself for a moment. It was from Brokaw. The sergeant's face was
terrible to behold. He rose to his feet, swaying, his hands clutched at
his breast. His voice was thick--hopeless.
"The match--went--out--" He staggered up to Billy, his eyes like a
madman's. Billy swayed dizzily. He laughed, even as he crumpled down in
the snow. As if in a dream he saw Brokaw stagger off on the frozen trail.
He saw him disappear in his hopeless effort to reach the Indian's shack.
And then a strange darkness closed him in, and in that darkness he heard
still the sweet voice of his wife. It spoke his name again and again, and
it urged him to wake up--wake up--WAKE UP! It seemed a long time before
he could respond to it. But at last he opened his eyes. He dragged
himself to his knees, and looked first to find Brokaw. But the man hunter
had gone--forever. The picture was still in his hand. Less distinctly
than before he saw the girl smiling at him. And then--at his back--he
heard a strange and new sound.
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