Evangeline | Page 8

village.
Late in the afternoon,
when the sun was near to his setting,
Echoed far o'er the fields came
the roll of drums from the churchyard.
Thither the women and
children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors
Opened, and forth
came the guard, and marching in gloomy procession
Followed the
long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers.
Even as pilgrims, who
journey afar from their homes and their country,
Sing as they go, and
in singing forget they are weary and wayworn,
So with songs on their
lips the Acadian peasants descended
Down from the church to the
shore, amid their wives and their daughters.
Foremost the young men
came; and, raising together their voices,
Sang they with tremulous
lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:--
"Sacred heart of the Saviour!
O inexhaustible fountain!
Fill our hearts this day with strength and
submission and patience!"
Then the old men, as they marched, and
the women that stood by the wayside
Joined in the sacred psalm, and
the birds in the sunshine above them
Mingled their notes therewith,
like voices of spirits departed.
Half-way down to the shore Evangeline waited in silence,
Not
overcome with grief, but strong in the hour of affliction,--
Calmly and
sadly she waited, until the procession approached her,
And she beheld
the face of Gabriel pale with emotion.
Tears then filled her eyes, and,
eagerly running to meet him,
Clasped she his hands, and laid her head
on his shoulder and whispered,--
"Gabriel! be of good cheer! for if we
love one another,
Nothing, in truth, can harm us, whatever
mischances may happen!"
Smiling she spake these words; then
suddenly paused, for her father
Saw she slowly advancing. Alas! how
changed was his aspect!
Gone was the glow from his cheek, and the
fire from his eye, and his footstep
Heavier seemed with the weight of
the heavy heart in his bosom.
But with a smile and a sigh, she clasped
his neck and embraced him,
Speaking words of endearment where
words of comfort availed not.
Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved
on that mournful procession.

There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking.

Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion
Wives were
torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children

Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties.
So
unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried,
While in despair
on the shore Evangeline stood with her father.
Half the task was not
done when the sun went down, and the twilight
Deepened and
darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean
Fled away from the
shore, and left the line of the sand-beach
Covered with waifs of the
tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed.
Farther back in the midst of
the household goods and the wagons,
Like to a gypsy camp, or a
leaguer after a battle,
All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels
near them,
Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers.

Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean,

Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving
Inland
and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors.
Then, as the
night descended, the herds returned from their pastures;
Sweet was
the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders;
Lowing
they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,--

Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milkmaid.

Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded,

Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the
windows.
But on the shores meanwhile the evening fires had been kindled,

Built of the drift-wood thrown on the sands from wrecks in the tempest.

Round them shapes of gloom and sorrowful faces were gathered,

Voices of women were heard, and of men, and the crying of children.

Onward from fire to fire, as from hearth to hearth in his parish,

Wandered the faithful priest, consoling and blessing and cheering,

Like unto shipwrecked Paul on Melita's desolate sea-shore.
Thus he
approached the place where Evangeline sat with her father,
And in
the flickering light beheld the face of the old man,
Haggard and

hollow and wan, and without either thought or emotion,
E'en as the
face of a clock from which the hands have been taken.
Vainly
Evangeline strove with words and caresses to cheer him,
Vainly
offered him food; yet he moved not, he looked not, he spake not,
But,
with a vacant stare, ever gazed at the flickering fire-light.

"Benedicite!" murmured the priest; in tones of compassion.
More he
fain would have said, but his heart was full, and his accents
Faltered
and paused on his lips, as the feet of a child on a threshold,
Hushed
by the scene he beholds, and the awful presence of sorrow.
Silently,
therefore, he laid his hand on the head of the maiden,
Raising his eyes
full of tears to the silent stars that above them
Moved on their way,
unperturbed by the wrongs and sorrows of mortals.
Then sat he down
at her side, and they wept together in silence.
Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in