Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
By JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
Author of "The Danger Trail," "The Courage of Captain Plum," etc.
1911
"Listen, John—I hear music—"
The words came in a gentle whisper from the woman's lips. One white,thin hand lifted itself weakly to the rough face of the man who waskneeling beside her bed, and the great dark eyes from which he hadhidden his own grew luminously bright for a moment, as she whisperedagain:
"John—I hear—music—"
A sigh fluttered from her lips. The man's head drooped until it restedvery near to her bosom. He felt the quiver of her hand against hischeek, and in its touch there was something which told John Cumminsthat the end of all life had come for him and for her. His heart beatfiercely, and his great shoulders shook with the agony that was eatingat his soul.
"Yes, it is the pretty music, my Mélisse," he murmured softly, chokingback his sobs. "It is the pretty music in the skies."
The hand pressed more tightly against his face.
"It's not the music in the skies, John. It is real—REAL music that Ihear—"
"It's the sky music, my sweet Mélisse! Shall I open the door so that wecan hear it better?"
The hand slipped from his cheek. Cummins lifted his head, slowlystraightening his great shoulders as he looked down upon the whiteface, from which even the flush of fever was disappearing, as he hadseen the pale glow of the northern sun fade before a thickening snow.He stretched his long, gaunt arms straight up to the low roof of thecabin, and for the first time in his life he prayed—prayed to the Godwho had made for him this world of snow and ice and endless forest verynear to the dome of the earth, who had given him this woman, and whowas now taking her from him.
When he looked again at the woman, her eyes were open, and there glowedin them still the feeble fire of a great love. Her lips, too, pleadedwith him in their old, sweet way, which always meant that he was tokiss them, and stroke her hair, and tell her again that she was themost beautiful thing in the whole world.
"My Mélisse!"
He crushed his face to her, his sobbing breath smothering itself in thesoft masses of her hair, while her arms rose weakly and fell around hisneck. He heard the quick, gasping struggle for breath within her bosom,and, faintly again, the words:
"It—is—the—music—of—my—people!"
"It is the music of the angels in the skies, my sweet Mélisse! It is
OUR music. I will open the door."
The arms had slipped from his shoulders. Gently he ran his roughfingers through the loose glory of the woman's hair, and stroked herface as softly as he might have caressed the cheek of a sleeping child.
"I will open the door, Mélisse."
His moccasined feet made no sound as he moved across the little roomwhich was their home. At the door he paused and listened; then heopened it, and the floods of the white night poured in upon him as hestood with his eyes turned to where the cold, pale flashes of theaurora were playing over the pole. There came to him the hissing,saddening song of the northern lights—a song of vast, unendingloneliness, which they two had come to know as the music of the skies....