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Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may control! Ye Ocean-waves! that wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-bird's singing, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Out of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog, came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round, young, yet matured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive as the murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from La Fille de Madame Angot, a light opera long since forgotten in New York. Hillard, genuinely astonished, lowered his pipe and listened.
'If it's head we go, Jim; if it's woman, we stay here. I sent up the coin; we both bent over near the fire to look at it. The head was uppermost. 'Hoo hoo hoo hoo, came the night-bird's harsh croak. There was a heavyish stake on that throw, if we'd only known. Only ruin only death. Four men's lives lost, and three women made miserable for life. Jim and I looked at one another.
"Oh, dear, what shall I do?" she cried out in sudden fright. "How could I know she was his sister when I told her my name?" A twig fell from the bough above her head brushed by some night-bird's wing. "He is coming to search for me," she whispered to herself. A tremor ran over her frame; the color flashed into her cheek and parted lips, and a startled, wistful brightness crept into the blue eyes.
There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, relieving the intensity of the dark. Through the whispering of the trees, and hushing the melancholy of a night-bird's song, came the wild low note of the Romany epic of vengeance. It had a thrill of exultation. Something in the voice, insistent, vibrating, personal, made every note a thrust of victory.
And when that night-bird's call rose again, clear and measured and louder than before, Fat Joe tightened the reins above the fagged team; he shot forward suddenly and laid the whip across their tired flanks as they cleared the last breastwork of trees. Steve's head was jerked backward by the abruptness of their first plunge; and then he saw what Fat Joe had seen a second before.
Suddenly the song ceased, and for a moment there was silence save for the whispering trees and the night-bird's song. Fleda rose from her bed, and was about to put on her dressing-gown, when she was startled by a voice loudly whispering her name at her window, as it seemed. "Daughter of the Ry of Rys !" it called.
"This is a terrible business, and our first duty is to try and capture the monster who committed this foul crime." They stood there in silence for a moment, looking earnestly at one another. Outside, somewhere in the woodland, there sounded the haunting gush of a night-bird's song, shivering through the quietness like a silver bell.
There was no moon, but the stars were shining brightly, relieving the intensity of the dark. Through the whispering of the trees, and hushing the melancholy of a night-bird's song, came the wild low note of the Romany epic of vengeance. It had a thrill of exultation. Something in the voice, insistent, vibrating, personal, made every note a thrust of victory.
Suddenly the song ceased, and for a moment there was silence save for the whispering trees and the night-bird's song. Fleda rose from her bed, and was about to put on her dressing-gown, when she was startled by a voice loudly whispering her name at her window, as it seemed. "Daughter of the Ry of Rys!" it called.
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