The Song of Hugh Glass. John G. Neihardt

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СКАЧАТЬ he wakened to a dawn of gray,

      And felt that something strong had gone away,

      Nor knew what thing. Some whisper of the will

      Bade him rejoice that Hugh was living still;

      But Hugh, the real, seemed somehow otherwhere.

      Jules, snug and snoring in his blanket there,

      Was half a life the nearer. Just so, pain

      Is nearer than the peace we seek in vain,

      And by its very sting compels belief.

      Jules woke, and with a fine restraint of grief

      Saw early dissolution. ‘One more night,

      And then the poor old man would lose the fight—

      Ah, such a man!’

      A day and night crept by,

      And yet the stubborn fighter would not die,

      But grappled with the angel. All the while,

      With some conviction, but with more of guile,

      Jules colonized the vacancy with Rees;

      Till Jamie felt that looseness of the knees

      That comes of oozing courage. Many men

      May tower for a white-hot moment, when

      The wild blood surges at a sudden shock;

      But when, insistent as a ticking clock,

      Blind peril haunts and whispers, fewer dare.

      Dread hovered in the hushed and moony air

      The long night through; nor might a fire be lit,

      Lest some far-seeing foe take note of it.

      And day-long Jamie scanned the blank sky rim

      For hoof-flung dust clouds; till there woke in him

      A childish anger—dumb for ruth and shame—

      That Hugh so dallied.

      But the fourth dawn came

      And with it lulled the fight, as on a field

      Where broken armies sleep but will not yield.

      Or had one conquered? Was it Hugh or Death?

      The old man breathed with faintly fluttering breath,

      Nor did his body shudder as before.

      Jules triumphed sadly. ‘It would soon be o’er;

      So men grew quiet when they lost their grip

      And did not care. At sundown he would slip

      Into the deeper silence.’

      Jamie wept,

      Unwitting how a furtive gladness crept

      Into his heart that gained a stronger beat.

      So cities, long beleaguered, take defeat—

      Unto themselves half traitors.

      Jules began

      To dig a hole that might conceal a man;

      And, as his sheath knife broke the stubborn sod,

      He spoke in kindly vein of Life and God

      And Mutability and Rectitude.

      The immemorial funerary mood

      Brought tears, mute tribute to the mother-dust;

      And Jamie, seeing, felt each cutting thrust

      Less like a stab into the flesh of Hugh.

      The sun crept up and down the arc of blue

      And through the air a chill of evening ran;

      But, though the grave yawned, waiting for the man,

      The man seemed scarce yet ready for the grave.

      Now prompted by a coward or a knave

      That lurked in him, Le Bon began to hear

      Faint sounds that to the lad’s less cunning ear

      Were silence; more like tremors of the ground

      They were, Jules said, than any proper sound—

      Thus one detected horsemen miles away.

      For many moments big with fate, he lay,

      Ear pressed to earth; then rose and shook his head

      As one perplexed. “There’s something wrong,” he said.

      And—as at daybreak whiten winter skies,

      Agape and staring with a wild surmise—

      The lad’s face whitened at the other’s word.

      Jules could not quite interpret what he heard;

      A hundred horse might noise their whereabouts

      In just that fashion; yet he had his doubts.

      It could be bison moving, quite as well.

      But if ’twere Rees—there’d be a tale to tell

      That two men he might name should never hear.

      He reckoned scalps that Fall were selling dear,

      In keeping with the limited supply.

      Men, fit to live, were not afraid to die!

      Then, in that caution suits not courage ill,

      Jules saddled up and cantered to the hill,

      A white dam set against the twilight stream;

      And as a horseman riding in a dream

      The lad beheld him; watched him clamber up

      To where the dusk, as from a brimming cup,

      Ran over; saw him pause against the gloom,

      Portentous, huge—a brooder upon doom.

      What did he look upon?

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