Yes, he had them--the two lines he wanted--a poet's
condensed statement of the thought he could not fully phrase:
Ah! the lark!
He hath the heaven which he sings,--
But my poor hawk hath only wings.
The success of the capture of this final perfection of statement of his
own thought refreshed him in a way which is one of the mysteries of that
wild charlatan imagination, who now and then administers tonics to the
weary which are of inexplicable value. John Penhallow felt the sudden
uplift and quickened his pace until he paused within the bastion lines of
the fort. Before him, with her back to him, sat Leila. Her hat lay beside
her finished sketch. She was thinking that John Penhallow, the boy
friend, was to-day in its accepted sense but an acquaintance, of whom she
desired, without knowing why, to know more. That he had changed was
obvious. In fact, he had only developed on the lines of his inherited
character, while in the revolutionary alterations of perfected womanhood
she had undergone a far more radical transformation.
The young woman, whom now he watched unseen, rose and stood on the
crumbling wall. A roughly caressing northwest wind blew back her skirts.
She threw out her wide-sleeved arms in exultant pleasure at the
magnificence of the vast river, with its forest boundaries, and the
rock-ribbed heights of Crow's Nest.
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