When the young man reached this spot of gloom, he fell with his face
upon the frozen earth, and cursed his life! In the distance sounded the
moans of the shadows left at the gate of the sepulchre; he bowed his
head and wept. He heard them ask: 'Is the six times Murdered really
dead? will she rise no more to deliver her faithful children from mortal
anguish?'
The Wanderer replied not, but looked with eyes of melancholy love upon
his friend who had thrown himself upon the frozen earth, and gently
raised him in his strong arms.
Then rose the wail of all the armies of the grave; they broke the
silence of death with loud and fearful cries: 'O Heavenly Father, Thou
hast betrayed us! Thou hast delivered us up to Hell, for our Saint is
really dead!'
The Wanderer answered the cry, and his voice pealed like distant
thunder. 'Blaspheme not! Our Saint yet breathes! I see her lying in her
last coffin on the hill of ice--there is no seventh beyond it--from it
comes the Resurrection!' The wails and sobs of the spirits suddenly
ceased, and a murmuring chant of the Mother's was entoned, low and sweet
as the first sigh of a germing hope.
The young man now perceived, for hitherto he had not seen it, the
illimitable space beyond the coffin. Afar over the infinite blue broke
the growing splendor of the early dawn--the clash and clamor of battles
yet unborn broke through the veil of Time--and above it all he heard the
Mother's ancient hymn of victory!
The young dawn shone but for a moment, the clash of battle ceased, the
song of triumph died upon the ear--the gloomy silence of the twilight
was again upon them, and frost and cold upon the earth.
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