"No light left inside of me, but dyin' this way is easy. There ain't
no wind will blow on me after I'm dead, but I'll be blanketed safe
from head to foot in cool, sweet-smellin' sod--the kind that has
tangles of the roots of grass. There ain't no snow will reach to me
where I lie. There ain't no sun will burn down to me. Dyin' like that
is jest--goin' to sleep."
After that he said nothing for a time, and the late afternoon darkened
slowly through the room.
As for Pierre, he did not move, and his mind went back. He did not see
the bearded wreck who lay dying before him, but a picture of Irene,
with the sun lighting her copper hair with places of burning gold, and
a handsome young giant beside her. They rode together on some upland
trail at sunset time, sharply framed against the bright sky.
There was a whisper below him: "Irene!"
And Pierre looked down to blankly staring eyes. He groaned, and
dropped to his knees.
"I have come for you," said the whisper, "because the time has come,
Irene. We have to ride out together.
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