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Come on, fellows!" "I'm not going to run until I find out what that is," insisted Frank. "I'm going to write a newspaper story about this menagerie!" "If you want your story published in this world," Jack cried, "you'd better get under cover, for that's the chant of the head hunters!" "Wow!" cried Frank, and he beat both his chums to the boat. "I guess we've started something!"
Verse after verse I chanted to the monotonous tune taught by Reb' Lebe, rocking to the rhythm of the chant, just like the rebbe. And so ran the song of David, and so ran the hours by, while I sat by the low window, the world erased from my consciousness.
Upon the appearance of this individual the uproar suddenly ceased, then the maestro who presided at the harmonicon struck up a low accompaniment, and the last comer burst into a subdued monotonous chant, pointing and gesticulating from time to time with his wand.
Men's voices, hoarse and untrained, are now heard chanting in rhythmic and monotonous chorus. They approach slowly, moving with measured regularity; and now strange figures begin to emerge from the passage-way, and as they file into the court-yard the chant grows louder and louder. A refrain breaks clearly and distinctly upon the ear, mingled with the discordant rumblings of a drum.
With a martyr look, yet a satirical glance, Averil opened the piano; and Henry settled himself in the master's arm-chair, as one about to enjoy well-earned rest and entertainment after a hard day's work. 'I say, what doleful drone have you there! 'I am trying a new chant for the "Nunc Dimittis". 'Nothing but that day and night! Give us something worth hearing.
And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant, beating time with his forefinger When, like a thief, the Midianite Shall steal upon the camp, O, let him find our armour bright, And oil within our lamp!" "But where in the world does it come from?" asked St. Neot.
But the Gothic cathedral had intervened; he had been taken by the beauty of its architecture and the beauty of its Gregorian chant. But now he realised if not in all its truth, at least in part that his love of God had only taken the form of a gratification of the senses, a sensuality higher but as intense as those which he so much reproved. His life had been but a sin, an abomination.
But the worker was stubborn. "Ho, I guess I ain't afraid of any old Whipple as old as what this one is!" "Well, anyway," called Merle, still in hushed tones, "I guess I got enough berries from this place." "Aw, come on!" urged the worker. In a rush of bravado he now extemporized a chant of defiance: Old Jonas Whipple Was an old cripple! Old Jonas Whipple Was an old cripple!
They might even have strength enough left to be able to chant one solemn final eternal adieu to their dear old Mother World, upon whose features their mortal eyes should never again rest in love and longing! Then, what was their Projectile to become? An inert, lifeless, extinct mass, not a particle better than the most defunct asteroid that wanders blindly through the fields of ether.
Filarete, meanwhile, had enveloped his head in a long linen veil, and, after washing his hands thrice in a golden basin brought for the purpose, he placed some faggots on the sarcophagus, lit them, and throwing grains of incense and of salt alternately into the flames, began to chant in an unknown tongue, which Domenico guessed to be Greek.
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