_Several voices--(Eagerly)_--What is it? What do you see?
MARION--Wait--wait, and I will tell you. I see _(pointing to the glass
with her finger)_ a sight that beggars all description; and yet listen,
and I will paint it for you, if I can. It is a lonely spot; tall mountains,
crowned with verdure, rise in awful sublimity around; a river runs through,
and bright flowers in wild profusion grow to the water's edge. There is a
thick, warm mist, that the sun vainly seeks to pierce; trees, lofty and
beautiful, wave to the airy motion of the birds; and beneath them a group
of Indians gather. They move to and fro with something like sorrow upon
their dark brows, for in their midst lies a manly form, whose cheek is
deathly pale, and whose eye is wild with the fitful fire of fever. One of
his own white race stands, or rather kneels, beside him, pillowing the poor
sufferer's head upon his breast with all a brother's tenderness. Look!
_(she speaks with renewed energy)_ how he starts up, throws the damp
curls back from his high and noble brow, and clasps his hands in agony of
despair; hear his terrible shrieks for life; and mark how he clutches at
the form of his companion, imploring to be saved from despair and death.
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