A. Maynard Barbour

The story of Mr. Britton's life impressed Darrell deeply. In the days following his friend's departure he would sit for hours revolving it in his mind, unable to rid himself of the impression that it was in some way connected with his own life. Impelled by some motive he could scarcely explain, he recorded it in his journal as told by Mr. Britton as nearly as he could recall it.

Left to himself he worked with unabated ardor, but his work soon grew unsatisfying. The inspiring nature of his surroundings seemed to stimulate him to higher effort and loftier work, which should call into play the imaginative faculties and in which the brain would be free to weave its own creations. Stronger within him grew the desire to write a novel which should have in it something of the power, the force, of the strenuous western life,—something which would seem, in a measure at least, worthy of his surroundings. His day's work ended, he would walk up and down the rocks, sometimes far into the night, the plot for this story forming within his brain, till at last its outlines grew distinct and he knew the thing that was to be, as the sculptor knows what will come forth at his bidding from the lifeless marble. He made a careful synopsis of the plot that nothing might escape him in the uncertain future, and then began to write.

The order of his work was now reversed, the new undertaking being given his first and best thought; then, when imagination wearied and refused to rise above the realms of fact, he fell back upon his scientific work as a rest from the other. Thus employed the weeks passed with incredible swiftness, the monotony broken by an occasional visit from Mr. Britton, until August came, its hot breath turning the grasses sere and brown.

One evening Darrell came forth from his work at a later hour than usual. His mind had been unusually active, his imagination vivid, but, wearied at last, he was compelled to stop short of the task he had set for himself.

The heat had been intense that day, and the atmosphere seemed peculiarly oppressive. The sun was sinking amid light clouds of gorgeous tints, and as Darrell watched their changing outlines they seemed fit emblems of the thoughts at that moment baffling his weary brain,—elusive, intangible, presenting themselves in numberless forms, yet always beyond his grasp.

Standing erect, with arms folded, his pose indicated conscious strength, and the face lifted to the evening sky was one which would have commanded attention amid a sea of human faces. Two years had wrought wondrous changes in it. Strength and firmness were there still, but sweetness was mingled with the strength, and the old, indomitable will was tempered with gentleness. All the finer susceptibilities had been awakened and had left their impress there. Introspection had done its work. It was the face of a man who knew himself and had conquered himself. The sculptor's work was almost complete.

Not a breath stirred the air, which moment by moment grew more oppressive, presaging a coming storm. Darrell was suddenly filled with a strange unrest—a presentiment of some impending catastrophe. For a while he walked restlessly up and down the narrow plateau; then, seating himself in front of the cabin, he bowed his head upon his hands, shutting out all sight and thought of the present, for his mind seemed teeming with vague, shadowy forms of the past. Duke came near and laid his head against his master's shoulder, and the twilight deepened around them both.

Far up the neighboring mountain a mighty engine loomed out from the gathering darkness—a fiery-headed monster—and with its long train of coaches crawled serpent-like around the rocky height, then vanished as it came. The clouds which had been roving indolently across the western horizon suddenly formed in line and moved steadily—a solid battalion—upward towards the zenith, while from the east another phalanx, black and threatening, advanced with low, wrathful mutterings.

Unmindful of the approaching storm Darrell sat, silent and motionless, till a sudden peal of thunder—the first note of the impending battle—roused him from his revery. Springing to his feet he watched the rapidly advancing armies marshalling their forces upon the battle-ground. Another roll of thunder, and the conflict began. Up and down the mountain passes the winds rushed wildly, shrieking like demons. Around the lofty summits the lightnings played like the burnished swords of giants in mortal combat, while peal after peal resounded through the vast spaces, reverberated from peak to peak, echoed and re-echoed, till the rocks themselves seemed to tremble.

With quickening pulse and bated breath Darrell watched the storm,—fascinated, entranced,—while emotions he could neither understand nor control surged through his breast. More and more fiercely the battle waged; more swift and brilliant grew the sword-play, while the roar of heaven's artillery grew louder and louder. His spirit rose with the strife, filling him with a strange sense of exaltation.

Suddenly the universe seemed wrapped in flame, there was a deafening crash as though the eternal hills were being rent asunder, and then—oblivion!

When that instant of blinding light and deafening sound had passed John Darrell lay prostrate, unconscious on the rocks.