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Updated: June 20, 2025
Recklow looked hard at McKay, then at Evelyn Erith, who was standing quietly beside him. "Can we get through this neck of woods?" asked McKay calmly. "We can hold our own here against a regiment," said Recklow. "No Swiss patrol is likely to cross the summit before daybreak. So if our cowbell jingles again to-night after I have once called halt! let the Boche have it."
As the wind ruffled the millions of petals, this bed of flowers, only a few inches wide but nearly a quarter of a mile in length, looked like a flashing stream of heavenly blue water rushing down the mountain side. By and by the faint kling-kling of a cowbell sounding far up the height told the travellers that they were nearing the plateau.
It came nearer and became plainer tonk-tonk-tonk; then the tonks all running together briskly. A sheep bell or a cowbell that was it; but why did it seem to come from overhead, from up in the sky, like? And why did it shift so abruptly from one quarter to another from left to right and back again to left? And how was it that the clapper seemed to strike so fast?
In the doorway stood a negro child, barefooted and naked except for a single garment, eyeing them with serious, rolling eyes and, with all the strength of his two puny arms, proudly but solemnly tolling a small rusty cowbell he had found in the cowyard. "See if he's still there, will you?" said the man listlessly, as if knowing in advance what the answer would be.
The heat-haze shimmered in the distance, and there was no sound in plain or village save the tinkle of a cowbell from the clumps of shade. Colonel Clark rode twenty paces in front, alone, his head bowed with thinking. "They're coming into Cahokia as thick as bees out'n a gum, Davy," said Tom; "seems like there's thousands of 'em. Nothin' will do 'em but they must see the Colonel, the varmints.
No shots had come from the patrol along the Franco-Swiss frontier; there was no sound save the ecstatic tumult of the nightingale drunk with moonlight, and, at intervals, the faint sound of a cowbell from those dark and distant pastures. To this silent, listening man it seemed certain that his two guests had now safely crossed the boundary at the spot he had marked for McKay on the detail map.
The woods are arrayed in all their pomp and splendor; the fields have the warmest and richest light to kindle their royal verdures; along the trails, and in every little tract of sunshine, the flowers of the forest hold forth their sweet and modest blooms; and while birds of every wing and song, continue their full concert from twilight to twilight, you may hear, if you listen, the chime of the cheering cowbell, made mellow by the distance, wakening the music of contentment in the heart, tolling the steps of the tripping hours, and sounding the notes of rural bliss.
The moonlight was too faint to supply any reassurance; I stumbled on for two hours. Welcome clang of a cowbell! My repeated shouts eventually brought a peasant to my side. "I am looking for Ram Gopal Babu." "No such person lives in our village." The man's tone was surly. "You are probably a lying detective."
"Keep steady," said Mr. Purdy, "and everything'll be all right." When we came to the brook we stopped to rest. I think my companion would have liked to start his argument again, but he was too short of breath. It was a prime spring evening! The frogs were tuning up. I heard a drowsy cowbell somewhere over the hills in the pasture.
Not even the breachiest of breachy young heifers could be expected to tinkle a cowbell with such briskness. The squire's eye searched the earth and the sky, his troubled mind giving to his eye a quick and flashing scrutiny. He had it. It was not a cow at all. It was not anything that went on four legs. One of the loathly flock had left the others.
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