She began to think that she was a lost
traveller among alpine snows wrapped round by snow, falling, falling in
ten myriad flakes, every one of them with a little heart of fire. Then
it came to her that she had heard this snow-sleep was dangerous, the
last of all sleeps, and that its victims must rouse themselves, or die.
Benita roused herself just in time--only just, for now she was being
borne over the edge of a precipice upon the wings of swans, and beneath
her was darkness wherein dim figures walked with lamps where their
hearts should be. Oh, how heavy were her eyelids! Surely a weight hung
to each of them, a golden weight. There, there, they were open, and she
saw. Her father had ceased his efforts; he was rubbing his brow with a
red pocket-handkerchief, but behind him, with rigid arms outstretched,
his glowing eyes fastened on her face, stood Jacob Meyer. By an effort
she sprang to her feet, shaking her head as a dog does.
"Have done with this nonsense," she said. "It tires me," and snatching
one of the lamps she ran swiftly down the place.
Benita expected that Jacob Meyer would be very angry with her, and
braced herself for a scene. But nothing of the sort happened. A while
afterwards she saw the two of them approaching, engaged apparently in
amicable talk.
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