But Bressant, as he walked
heavily along, encompassed with bitter and miserable thoughts, suddenly
halted, as if an iron hand had been laid upon his shoulder. Either he
had actually heard a faint echo of that unearthly cry, or his spiritual
ear had taken cognizance of the call of Sophie's soul. He turned himself
about, with a quaking heart. There was the long white road, but no human
being was visible upon it. Yet he knew that Sophie's voice had called
him. She must be near. Slowly he began to walk back, half dreading to
behold her image rise before him, with deep, reproachful eyes.
He had not gone twenty yards, when he started back, having almost set
his foot upon something which lay face downward in the snow, clad in a
dress almost as white. He would not have seen her but for her brown
hair, which, falling loosely about, was caught and stirred by the
inquisitive breeze. She herself lay quite still.
Bressant took her beneath the arms, and lifted her up. Crouching down,
he supported her head against his shoulder, and brushed away the snow
that had adhered to her face. There was a cut upon her chin, but the
blood, after running a few moments, had congealed. Her eyes were not
quite shut, but the lids were stiff and immovable.
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