"Some people," Faith laughed, "would say that death would be a blessed relief from the sound of them."
Angus smiled grimly. "I know. There are plenty of jokes about the pipes. But they are no joke to the men who meet the men played into battle to the skirl of them."
"I believe you are right in that," Faith admitted. "I haven't a drop of Scotch blood, so far as I know. But I have heard a pipe band playing 'Lochaber No More' behind a gun carriage which bore a dead soldier; and I have seen the Highland regiments march past the colors at a review, to 'Glendarual' and 'Cock o' the North,' and heaven knows what gatherings and pibrochs, and I have stood up on my toes and my back hair has felt crinkly. I own up to it. But I love the banjo. It's a little sister of the lonesome."
She took the instrument, a beautiful concert model, from its case, keyed it for a moment and spoke through low, rippling chords.
"Sometimes at night I pick it by the hour—oh, very softly, so as not to disturb anybody—not any particular tune—just odds and ends, anything—and my thoughts go away off wool gathering and I am quite happy. Can you understand such foolishness?"
"Yes," Angus replied seriously. "I can't play anything, or sing, but there are times when I want to—if you can understand that."
She nodded, her fingers brushing the strings. "Yes, I know. Often the person who knows least about music loves it best—down in his soul."
"Play something," Angus urged.
And so Faith Winton played. At first she played consciously; but as the daylight faded and the twilight came she let the strings talk. Bits of old half-forgotten melodies rippled from her fingers, changing, shifting, mingling and merging, now familiar or half familiar and then quite strange; but always tugging, tugging at the heartstrings, as if in the gut and parchment there dwelt a wayward, whimsical soul, half-sad and half-merry, whimpering and chuckling in the growing darkness. Suddenly the music swept into a rolling, thunderous march, shifted to a rollicking Irish jig, and stopped abruptly with a crash of chords and a ringing of gut and iron.
"Don't stop," Angus said.