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Updated: June 19, 2025
If there is not even the sound of the cricket or the wind, if there are not even ghost whispers in the house, there is the sigh of one's own breathing, and in those moments of deadly waiting the beat of the heart may be as loud and as awful as the rattle of the death-march. Now, between the doctor and the cowpuncher, such a silence began.
And when the vision sinks, dissolving, and night has once more within its keeping cuirass and spear and the caparisons of war, the oppressed mind is beset as by a heavy sound, gathering up from the abysses, deeper, more dread and mysterious than the death-march of heroes the funeral march of the empires of the world, the requiem of faiths, dead yet not dead, of creeds, institutions, religions, governments, laws till through Time's shadows the Eternal breaks, in silence sweeter than all music, in a darkness beyond all light.
The triumph is a death-march; the victor's voice a moan: But the Powers of Night are broken when the Stranger wins his own! "Ever in blackest midnight shines the Star with brightest ray; Woe to them that hunt the theme if Kargynda cross the way! In the Home of Peace, Clavelta, can our fears thy spirit move? Look down! whence comes the rescue to the household of thy love?
"The volley was fired at sunrise, Just at the break of day" "Did you get that?" one of the two exclaimed hoarsely. "They're practising a death-march, and it's ours." "And as the echoes lingered, His soul had passed away." "That's you, Wally!" wheezed the trainer. "Into the arms of his Maker, There to learn his fate" Speed broke into a run.
Two marches of Chopin, and the death-march of Siegfried, the haunting suggestion of a soul's preparation for departure in Schubert's Unfinished; the Death of Aase, the Pilgrim's Chorus, one of Mozart's requiems, and that Napoleonic funèbre from the Eroica these, with others, grouped themselves into an unearthly archipelago towering cliffs of glorious gloom, white birds silently sweeping the gray solitudes above the breakers....
But throughout the scene it is the Till motive, not the rogue, that fits the stride of the death-march. To be sure the rogue anon laughs bravely. But the other figure is in full view. The sombre legend is, indeed, in a separate phase, its beauty now distorted in a feverish chase of voices on the main phrase. It is all a second climax, of a certain note of terror, of fate.
The bells ring, the lovely strains from "Lohengrin" fill the grand, new house o' God, an' overflow into the quiet streets o' the village, an' we hear in them what Wagner never thought of the joyful death-march of a race. Think of it, Bill, this old earth is growin' too costly for the use o' man. We prefer autos an' diamonds an' knick-knacks!
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