And, as he looked, some nerve seemed to tighten across his brows,--a burning ache and strain, as if a strong cord stretched to a tension of acutest agony tortured his brain,-- and for a moment he lost all other consciousness but the awful sense of death,--death in the air,--death in the cold rain--death in the falling leaves--death in the deepening gloom of the night,--and death, palpable, fierce and cruel in the solemn gliding approach of that funeral group,--that hearse-like burden of the perished brightness, the joyous innocence, the sunny smile, the radiant hair, the sweet frank eyes--the all of beauty that was once Maryllia! Then, unaware of his own actions, he went forward giddily, blindly and unreasoningly---till, coming face to face with the little moving group of awed and weeping people, all of whom halted abruptly at sight of him, he suddenly stretched forth his hands as though they held a book at arm's length, and his voice, tremulous, yet resonant, struck through the hush of sudden silence.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die!"
A tragic pause ensued. Every face was turned upon him in tearful wonder. Dr. Forsyth came quickly up to him.
"Walden!" he said, in a low tone--"What is this? What are you saying? You are not yourself! Come home!"
But John stood rigidly inert. His tall slight figure, fully erect, looked almost spectral in the mists of the gathering night. He went on reciting solemnly,-"I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth. And though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold and not another!"
Here there was a general movement of consternation in the little crowd. Parson Walden was beginning to read the burial service! Then men whispered to one another,--and some of the women burst out crying bitterly. Dr. Forsyth became alarmed.
"John!" he said, imperatively--"Rouse yourself, man! You are ill--I see you are ill,--but I cannot attend to you now! Try not to delay me, for God's sake! Miss Vancourt is seriously injured--but I MAY save her life. She is not dead."
Something snapped like a broken harp-string behind Walden's temples,--the horrible tension was relieved.
"Not dead--not dead?" he muttered--"Not dead? Forsyth, are you sure?"