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62
THE MOTION PICTURE STORY MAGAZINE
All night there is drinking and eating, and the shuffle of dancing feet,
Till the women's paint grows garish when lamplight and daybreak meet.
In the hotel hall he left her : "I'll be back in a little while."
Her heart turned faint with its beating, under his meaning smile.
Men and women, passing, turned to stare at the mountain maid,
Till her cheek was shamed with her blushes, and her heart was cold and afraid.
Then swift to her feet she hurried thru the door where he had gone,
Fright-spurred down the long, dark corridors, and on and on and on.
And then his voice — she heard it, and the sight that stung her eyes
Left her white-lipped and heavy-breathing, shrinking back in her surprise.
Full-lipped, with opulent bosom, ah ! surely she was fair,
The girl in the arms of the Valley
Man, his hot cheek on her hair — . Fair as a poison-flower that has smiling death in its face; And, oh! her bare throat's ecstasies!
and, oh ! her bosom's grace ! Over the soul of the mountain maid,
like a healing torrent came The scorch of bitter repenting and the
cleansing fires of shame — Out, out into God's safe darkness, with
God's kind stars overhead, Thru the dull-faced, gaping crowds,
fear-driven, on she sped.
Twelve moons had waned on the highlands, twelve months had died on the plain,
Before the maid of the mountains saw a friendly face again.
All day from sunrise to sunset she toiled for her honest bread,
Tho the song of her soul was silent and the joy in her heart was dead.
The air of the plains was stifling, she could not breathe it at first,
And the thought of the pine-breath at dawning was on her like a thirst.
Wind of the peaks in the willows, wailing its wistful tune,
And the aspen's arabesques of twigs against the copper moon;
The tremble, toil and the tumult of the foam-flecked mountain streams —
All night, in her troubled slumber, they went roaring thru her dreams.
But the shame of her sin was upon her, and she dared not lift her eyes
To where the distant mountains reared their crests against the skies.
Then the world grew wistful with springtime, even the world of the plain —
The heart of the maid remembered, and the memory was a pain.
There it lay withered before her, the fragile toy of an hour,
Pale as the first spring sun-rays, a rosy arbutus flower.
'always, and always, and always,' the sad winds seemed to blow"