Or if it were perhaps a long, slow, painful journey through thick night, toilsome, blindly groping, wings adroop trailing against bruised heels.

Or if we two must pass by hell, within sight and hearing of the thunderous darkness, and feel the rushing wind of the pit hot on one's face.
Sometimes, like a very child, she prattled of happiness, which she had never experienced, but meant to savour, wedded or not--talked to me there of all she had never known and would now know and realize within her mother's tender arms.
"And sometimes, Euan, dreaming of her I scarce see how, within my heart, I can find room for you also.

Yet, I know well there is room for both of you, and that one without the other would leave my happiness but half complete....

I wonder if I resemble her?
Will she know me--and I her?
How shall we meet, Euan--after more than a score of years?
She will see my moccasins, and cry out! She will see my face and know me, calling me by name! Oh, happiness! Oh, miracle! Will the night never come!" "Dear maid and tender! You should not build your hopes too high, so that they crush you utterly if they must fall to earth again." "I know.

Amochol may have slain her.