CHAPTER XX.
GEORGE OLVER'S ORATION.
The Wallencampers gathered at the Ark, singing a calm and high farewell
to earth, that alone was meet for the untroubled lips of that silent
singer in their midst.
They gathered at the Ark. No other place seemed to them sacred enough for
such a meeting, now; no other place dear enough for the celebration of
such a solemn, long farewell.
Over the threshold, where he had come so often bounding in his life, they
brought the dead; there was the same strange look of exaltation on their
faces that I had noticed while Captain Sartell told the story of the
storm; stricken and white, the poor faces, yet touched with some daring,
unutterable hope--so clear a message they read on that wondrously still
and reconciled face, so without fear the dead lips spoke to them.
To me, the message was one of infinite pathos and rebuke, speaking of a
heroism beyond my poor conception, of a height of glory of which I had
not dreamed.
"Farewell, forevermore," the fathomless far voice murmured to my despair,
and slowly and repeatedly; "Farewell, forevermore. I am beyond the need
of your poor love."
And my heart turned to stone, with all the passionate, pure sorrow that
might have been, the tears in which I might have found relief.
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