There was, or appeared
to be, nothing in it; of course he could not expect anything else. Its
occupant had sunk and been carried out to sea by the ebb, whereas the
canoe had drifted back to shore with the morning tide.
He reared it upon its end to let the water drain out of it, and from the
hollow of the bow arch something came rolling down, something bright and
heavy, followed by a brown object. Hastily he lowered the canoe again,
and picked up the bright trinket. It was his own ring come back to
him--the Roman ring he had given Beatrice, and which she told him in the
letter she would wear in her hour of death. He touched it with his lips
and placed it back upon his hand, this token from the beloved dead,
vowing that it should never leave his hand in life, and that after death
it should be buried on him. And so it will be, perhaps to be dug up
again thousands of years hence, and once more to play a part in the
romance of unborn ages.
_Ave atque vale_--that was the inscription rudely cut within its
round. Greeting and farewell--her own last words to him. Oh, Beatrice,
Beatrice! to you also _ave atque vale_.
Pages:
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512