He had seen grown men and women
with these fancies--and they had died.
"I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my
head. P'r'aps he's calling some one that's lost."
"Mebbe."
"And I heard a voice singing--it wasn't a bird to-night."
"There was no voice, Dominique."
"Yes, yes." There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty
of the lad. "I waked, and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my
eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words."
"What were the words?" In spite of himself the hunter felt awed.
"I've heard mother sing them, or something most like them:
"'Why does the fire no longer burn?
(I am so lonely.)
Why does the tent-door swing outward?
(I have no home.)
Oh, let me breathe hard in your face!
(I am so lonely.)
Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me?
(I have no home.)'"
The boy paused.
"Was that all, Dominique?"
"No, not all."
"'Let us make friends with the stars;
(I am so lonely.)
Give me your hand, I will hold it.
(I have no home.)
Let us go hunting together.
(I am so lonely.)
We will sleep at God's camp to-night.
(I have no home.)'"
Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting
inflection.
"What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?"
"I don't know. Who told--your mother--the song?"
"Oh, I don't know.
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