- end_line
- 1741
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:52.918Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1702
- text
- deeper in him; he turns round and menaces the air and talks to it, as if
defied by the air. Woe is me, that fairy love should raise this evil
spell!--Pierre?"
"But now I was infinite distances from thee, oh my Lucy, wandering
baffled in the choking night; but thy voice might find me, though I had
wandered to the Boreal realm, Lucy. Here I sit down by thee; I catch a
soothing from thee."
"My own, own Pierre! Pierre, into ten trillion pieces I could now be
torn for thee; in my bosom would yet hide thee, and there keep thee
warm, though I sat down on Arctic ice-floes, frozen to a corpse. My own,
best, blessed Pierre! Now, could I plant some poniard in me, that my
silly ailings should have power to move thee thus, and pain thee thus.
Forgive me, Pierre; thy changed face hath chased the other from me; the
fright of thee exceeds all other frights. It does not so haunt me now.
Press hard my hand; look hard on me, my love, that its last trace may
pass away. Now I feel almost whole again; now, 'tis gone. Up, my Pierre;
let us up, and fly these hills, whence, I fear, too wide a prospect
meets us. Fly we to the plain. See, thy steeds neigh for thee--they call
thee--see, the clouds fly down toward the plain--lo, these hills now
seem all desolate to me, and the vale all verdure. Thank thee,
Pierre.--See, now, I quit the hills, dry-cheeked; and leave all tears
behind to be sucked in by these evergreens, meet emblems of the
unchanging love, my own sadness nourishes in me. Hard fate, that Love's
best verdure should feed so on tears!"
Now they rolled swiftly down the slopes; nor tempted the upper hills;
but sped fast for the plain. Now the cloud hath passed from Lucy's eye;
no more the lurid slanting light forks upward from her lover's brow. In
the plain they find peace, and love, and joy again.
"It was the merest, idling, wanton vapor, Lucy!"
"An empty echo, Pierre, of a sad sound, long past. Bless thee, my
Pierre!"
"The great God wrap thee ever, Lucy. So, now, we are home."
- title
- Chunk 4