eyes turned up to the heights of Fort Pillow, and he wondered if the souls of the dead do not walk upon the waters in the murk of night? If he knew no fear, at least he thrilled to the strange music which the river plays, which one cannot hear but of which one sometimes feels as though he is a part.
Murdong could see only the dark masses of the bluffs, the equally dark wooded point opposite, and the paleness of the river surface, catching and reflecting glows out of the sky. He saw a sandbar down stream, which had a strange gleam that marked the silhouettes of the wind-heaped, water-moulded hills and valleys of the little desert, where the myriads of grains of sand turned their polished facets and reflected the sky lights like precious stones.
Here was inspiration for his muse, which he now realized had been starved for these strange lower river things. He had come below the jumping-off place, murderous in his feelings and desperate—only to find that his star had guided him aright, and brought him into the very heart of the land of his dreams.
He knew how his mind had strived and struggled with the things it had to eat; he looked back wonderingly. What had saved his mind? Why hadn't it starved to death? Why hadn't his very soul died within him for lack of proper nourishment?
Here he was satisfying an appetite long ahungered.
