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A Sanctuary Of The Plains
by
Having finished his task, he sat down, drew the book of holy offices again from his bosom, and read it, whisperingly, for a time; then fell to musing, and, after a considerable time, knelt down as if in prayer. While he knelt, the girl, as if startled from her sleep by some inner shock, opened her eyes wide and looked at him, first with bewilderment, then with anxiety, then with wistful thankfulness. “Oh, I thought–I thought when I awoke before that it was a woman. But it is the good Father Corraine–Corraine, yes, that was the name.”
The priest’s clean-shaven face, long hair, and black cassock had, in her first moments of consciousness, deceived her. Now a sharp pain brought a moan to her lips; and this drew the priest’s attention. He rose, and brought her some food and drink. “My daughter,” he said, “you must take these.” Something in her face touched his sensitive mind, and he said, solemnly: “You are alone with me and God, this hour. Be at peace. Eat.”
Her eyes swam with instant tears. “I know–I am alone–with God,” she said. Again he gently urged the food upon her, and she took a little; but now and then she put her hand to her side as if in pain. And once, as she did so, she said: “I’ve far to go and the pain is bad. Did they take him away?”
Father Corraine shook his head. “I do not know of whom you speak,” he replied. “When I went to my door this morning I found you lying there. I brought you in, and, finding no sign of life in you, sent Featherfoot, my Indian, to Fort Cypress for a trooper to come; for I feared that there had been ill done to you, somehow. This border-side is but a rough country. It is not always safe for a woman to travel alone.”
The girl shuddered. “Father,” she said “Father Corraine, I believe you are?” (Here the priest bowed his head.) “I wish to tell you all, so that if ever any evil did come to me, if I should die without doin’ what’s in my heart to do, you would know, and would tell him if you ever saw him, how I remembered, and kept rememberin’ him always, till my heart got sick with waitin’, and I came to find him far across the seas.”
“Tell me your tale, my child,” he patiently said. Her eyes were on the candle in the window questioningly. “It is for the trooper–to guide him,” the other remarked. “‘Tis past time that he should be here. When you are able you can go with him to the Fort. You will be better cared for there, and will be among women.”
“The man–the man who was kind to me–I wish I knew of him,” she said.
“I am waiting for your story, my child. Speak of your trouble, whether it be of the mind and body, or of the soul.”
“You shall judge if it be of the soul,” she answered.
“I come from far away. I lived in old Donegal since the day that I was born there, and I had a lover, as brave and true a lad as ever trod the world. But sorrow came. One night at Farcalladen Rise there was a crack of arms and a clatter of fleeing hoofs, and he that I loved came to me and said a quick word of partin’, and with a kiss–it’s burnin’ on my lips yet–askin’ pardon, father, for speech of this to you–and he was gone, an outlaw, to Australia. For a time word came from him. Then I was taken ill and couldn’t answer his letters, and a cousin of my own, who had tried to win my love, did a wicked thing. He wrote a letter to him and told him I was dyin’, and that there was no use of farther words from him. And never again did word come to me from him. But I waited, my heart sick with longin’ and full of hate for the memory of the man who, when struck with death, told me of the cruel deed he had done between us two.”