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Soon there was scarcely a dry eye in the room, and many were sobbing in sympathy with her inexpressible woe. Her voice was finally heard, and though low and quavering, the sweetly modulated tones indicated a cultivated mind and loving nature: "I thank my heavenly Father," she murmured, "for this day's victory.
The single and melancholy association he had with it was the quaking hymn which his grandfather used to sing in a cracked and quavering voice: "While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground." The "glory" that "shone around" at the end of it the doleful voice always repeating, "and glory shone around " made John as miserable as "Hark! from the tombs."
Mrs Swadling, who never let herself be asked twice, for fear of being thought shy, led off with a pathetic ballad. She sang in a thin, quavering voice, staring into, vacancy with glassy eyes like the blind beggars at the corner, dragging the tune till it became a wail a dirge for lost souls.
Malcolm, son of heroes, traw ta claymore of ta pard, and fall upon ta traitors. She'll pe singing you ta onset, for ta pibroch is no more." His quavering voice rose that instant in a fierce though feeble chant, and his hand flew to the hilt of his weapon.
He was profoundly touched and felt that to say more would be too brutal even for his coarse nature; so he simply lifted his hat and went away. Jean took hold of Alice's dress as she turned to go back into the house. "Is he going to take the flag? Can he find it? What does he want with it? What did you do with the flag, Alice?" he whined, in his peculiar, quavering voice. "Where is it?"
That won't do now," I said warningly. "I can't see the sails very well," the helmsman answered me, in strange, quavering tones. Was she close enough? Already she was, I won't say in the shadow of the land, but in the very blackness of it, already swallowed up as it were, gone too close to be recalled, gone from me altogether.
And all round there arose a shrill quavering bleating of lambs and calling of sheep, while the wind began to catch the topmost branches of the trees. Suddenly Mr. Oke broke the silence.
A quavering cry rang out at the mouth of the valley. This time it was answered from the clearing on our right as well as from the ridge. The Indians had crept closer, just as Cousin had predicted. Half a minute passed, then the signal sounded directly ahead of us, or from beyond the Dales' cabin. The circle was completed. From the ridge soared a burning arrow.
He then read me, in his quavering voice, with a slight Picardian accent, a very pretty sonnet, which he refused to give me. He then unfolded a second paper, on which some verses to Sarah Bernhardt were scrawled. The third paper was a sort of triumphant chant, celebrating all our victories over the enemy. "The poor fellow still hoped, until he was killed," said the father.
He was badly hacked, and from a gunshot wound in the vitals he was bleeding to death. His comrade forced liquor between his teeth and offered to examine his wounds. Old Nat waved him aside. "No use. I'm for hell." He smiled and began to sing in a quavering voice the chorus of the grim old buccaneers' song.
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