He believed he was dying--bleeding to death. The very thought
blunted his faculties for a time; and he was conscious of little
beyond a dull wonder. Could it be possible that the tragedy of his
death was enacting in that peaceful, secluded nook? Could Nature
be so indifferent or so unconscious if it were true that he was
soon to lie there DEAD? He saw the speckled trout lying motionless
at the bottom of the pool, the gray squirrels sporting in the
boughs over his head. The sunlight shimmered and glinted through
the leaves, flecking with light his prostrate form. He dipped his
hand in the blood that had welled from his side, and it fell in
rubies from his fingers. Could that be his blood--his life-blood;
and would it soon all ooze away? Could it be that death was coming
through all the brightness of that summer afternoon?
From a shadowed tree further up the glen, a wood-thrush suddenly
began its almost unrivalled song. The familiar melody, heard so
often from his cottage-porch in the June twilight, awoke him to
the bitter truth.
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