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Nut Kut, who had already made his reputation as the most deadly fighter known to the mahouts, was exulting in strength. It was his joy-song. It came from straight ahead. Mitha Baba answered with a rollicking squeal. But the wild herd voices were savage chaotic. Now Nut Kut's challenge came back looming. The situation was no longer absurd.
The joy of the Holy Ghost comes when a man gives himself up to the Christlike work of carrying the love of God to men. Let us seek the perishing, let us live and die for souls, let us live and die that our fellow-men may be reclaimed and brought back to their God. There is no joy like hearing the joy-song of a new-born soul. But yes, there is another joy that may be as deep.
Alighting on nearby trees, they sing with a hearty vengeance, bursting out without any puttering prelude in gloriously glad concert, hundreds or thousands of exulting voices with sweet gurgling baumpalees mingled with chippy vibrant and exploding globules of musical notes, making a most enthusiastic, indescribable joy-song, a combination unlike anything to be heard elsewhere in the bird kingdom; something like bagpipes, flutes, violins, pianos, and human-like voices all bursting and bubbling at once.
Instead of answering she laughed again. It was the happiest joy-song in the world. A mirthful goddess might have trilled it a laugh like sunshine and flowers and chasing cloud shadows on waving grass. "Helen Winship, stop it! Stop this masquerade!" I shouted, not knowing what I did. "But I I'm afraid I can't, John." The glorious face brimmed with mischief.
A Chopin could have harmonized the melody, weaving in little trills and silvery treble notes from the joy-song of the nesting birds. The bandages had been removed from the patient's eyes, and she wore a pair of wide dark glasses side-curtained from the light. After a few conventional words of greeting and inquiry, Larssen drew up a chair beside hers.
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