The letters blazed with a
soft lambent flame, and he fell reverently upon his knees. Penetrated
with mystic awe, he quivered from head to foot when he arose, and wept
tenderly as he crossed the threshold.
A soft light, like that of an evening late in autumn, dimly illumined
the space within. I saw the holy Coffin as it lay on the gentle slope of
a hill; a giant Pine stood at its head, and in its topmost branches
perched the Eagle, pierced to the heart and sleeping in its own blood.
Within the coffin lay the sacred Form, with the cross on her breast, the
veil on her face, the fetters on her hands, and the crown upon her
forehead. I saw six such hills rising one after the other, separated
from one another by the long grass, through which, in place of sunny
brooks, flowed crimson streams of human gore. Hilts and shivered
fragments of broken swords, overgrown with weeds and covered with rust,
were lying scattered in every direction through the rank grass. On each
of the six hills lay the same Coffin; the same Form. But always more and
more strongly surged the streams of human blood; heavier and heavier
grew the chains on the hands of the Dead; and paler and paler the dim
autumnal light. At the foot of the last hill it was dark, and bitter
cold; the currents of blood were frozen; the icicles hung from the
branches of the Pine; the Eagle lay in his congealed gore; and in place
of the veil, the face of the six times murdered Mother was closely
covered with a sheet of snow.
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