It seemed strange to think that, twenty
feet above me, the world was all white with snow; the sound of
sleigh-bells and church-bells, and the cries of snowshoers ringing
on the clear, sharp air. I pictured the streets of Quebec alive
with people: the young seigneur set off with furs and silken sash
and sword or pistols; the long-haired, black-eyed woodsman in his
embroidered moccasins and leggings with flying thrums; the peasant
farmer slapping his hands cheerfully in the lighted market-place;
the petty noble, with his demoiselle, hovering in the precincts of
the Chateau St. Louis and the intendance. Up there were light,
freedom, and the inspiriting frost; down here in my dungeon, the
blades of corn, which, dying, yet never died, told the story of a
choking air, wherein the body and soul of a man droop and take long
to die. This was the night before Christmas Eve, when in England
and Virginia they would be preparing for feasting and thanksgiving.
The memories of past years crowded on me. I thought of feastings
and spendthrift rejoicings in Glasgow and Virginia.
Pages:
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181