The dark form which come between the old man and the sun, and with
its shadow struck him down, even in the act of Murder; was it indeed
Paul Ardenheim, or but an apparition gliding sadly and noiselessly through
the light and shadow of the summer day?

In the woods which bloom so fragrantly around the Wissahikon, we
may find an answer to our question.

There was a narrow path leading from the field of new-mown hay,

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down into the nooks of the forest, down even to the waters of the Wissahikon.
Where the oaks and chesnuts, the maples and the pines, were
grouped in one rich contrast of foliage: where the sunlight came lovingly,
scattering patches of gold upon the sod; where a tiny thread of
liquid silver trickled down a gray old rock, and made low music among
the shadows—such was the course of the wild-wood path, which led from
the field of new-mown hay, to the verge of the Wissahikon waters.

Along this path, the dark form hastened with a measured step, never
once looking to the right or left, or casting a backward glance through the
light and shadow of the woods.

Now in the sunshine, where every outline of the shape, every lock of
the waving hair, and point of the dark attire, was fully disclosed, and now
into the shade, where the thick leaves spread a tremulous canopy, and the
low voice of the tiny rill sung through the silence.

Now turning the breast of this gray rock, crowned by a clump of saplings,
now along this level slope, where the moss, softer than any carpet,
glowed in a passing ray, and now along this barren strip of earth, whose
brown leaves are darkened by the twilight of the withered pines.

Thus, without once looking back, or glancing to the right or left, the
dark form wandered on.

At last there came a narrow dell, open to the sunlight, and full of fresh
wild grass, whose vivid green was sprinkled with flowers. A narrow
dell, with walls of leaves on either side,—or rather with the foliage
spreading from the grass to the sky, like immense folds of tapestry,
rendered surpassingly beautiful by fairy hands. A narrow dell, through
whose wild grass the tiny thread of silver sparkled fitfully, and through
whose silence the low song was ever singing.

At the western extremity of this dell, where it widened into a slope of
carpet-like moss, sparkled a calm sheet of water, embosomed among
leaves. The shadow which rested there, making the water more calmly
beautiful, and wrapping the giant trees on the opposite shore in vague
twilight, was only broken by a flood of hazy light, which came rushing
like a golden rain through an opening in the trees.

Above the dell,—above the calm sheet of water, undimpled by a ripple—
shone a glimpse of Heaven, whose deep azure was blushing into gold,
at the kiss of the afternoon sun.

And the dark form which had passed between the old man and the sun,
striking him down with its shadow, hastened along the dell, without once
looking back.

As it came in sight of the calm sheet of water, a word arose upon the
silence, uttered by a voice of sad emphasis.

That word was “Wissahikon!”

At last the form drew near the water-side, and that calm sheet, spreading
without a ripple, in its frame of rocks and trees, reflected a face.

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It was a bronzed face, shadowed by locks of dark brown hair. There
were large lustrous eyes beneath the boldly marked brows. There was
beard upon the firm lip—dark beard, which clothed the round chin, and
softly relieved the dark olive complexion. There was a broad forehead,
shadowed by a gloom beyond all power of language to describe.
Altogether, a face so bold, and yet beautiful in its young manhood, so
darkened in every lineament by some memory of the past, or prophecy
of the future, the Wissahikon waters never reflected before this hour.

The dark form stood by the water-side—centred in that scene so full
of romance and beauty. To the north and south spread the calm water,
resembling no impetuous torrent, but a slumbering lakelet embosomed
amid trees, rocks and flowers.

There were grotesque rocks on the opposite shore, mingled with the
colossal trunks of forest trees. Beyond those rocks, and through the intervals
of those trees, the ascent of a broad hill-side was dimly seen, with
a ray of light trembling through the distant shadows.

This shore was in strong contrast with that on which the dark form
stood. Leaves, blossoms, flowers, nothing but leaves, blossoms and
flowers, from the calm water to the glimpse of sky. No grand trunks
of giant trees were visible; it was a mass of foliage bathed in sunshine,
while the opposite shore brooded among its shadows.

The opening of the dell—a space of level moss—alone broke the uniformity
of the leafy prospect.

To the south and the north, the foliage, meeting from the opposite
shores, enclosed the waters in its embrace, and the calm waves mirrored
every tree, rock and flower, until there seemed another wood, another
world and sky beneath their surface.

Over the tree-tops of the south, a glimpse of a roof was seen, with a
line of smoke fading away from a chimney into the leaves and sky. It
was the roof of an ancient mill, standing near a waterfall, whose music
came in softened cadence over the woods.

As the dark form stood on the edge of the bank, as the bronzed face
was reflected in the waters, a sharp sound crashed on the silence of the
scene. It was the report of gun or pistol, or perchance only the echo of
a rock thundering from some distant height, but the sound passed unheeded.

That face still gazed in sadness into the clear waves.

Presently a sound as of fluttering wings was heard, and an object fell at
the feet of the motionless form.

It was a dying bird, with a drop of blood starting from the soft plumage
of its breast. There was a glassy film upon its eye—once it moved its
wings, beating the grass with faint blows—and then it was dead.

There was something like an omen, or a warning in this scene—it lay
upon the green moss, its white plumage tinted by gold, with a single
blood-drop starting from the breast.

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And the form standing near the waters bent down, and a hand raised
the bird—it was a wild dove—and as the warmth of life still clung about
its plumage, it was pressed against a manly breast.

“A welcome home!” a sad voice was heard—“Is it an omen, or a
warning?”

At the same moment a glad laugh rang merrily in the air, as, from the
crashing bushes, sprang a manly form, while a handsome face, ruddy with
excitement, appeared amid its encircling locks of chesnut hair.

“Paul Ardenheim!” rang out the tones of that cheerful voice—“You
here!”

“Reginald!” exclaimed a deep voice, in an accent of unfeigned amazement.