“I know that, too,” said Edith. “It is by James Montgomery. It is also a hymn.”
“And another of those I heard in childhood,” I answered eagerly. “The favorite of—of one who perished—Come on! everybody, I must see what this means!”
The singing had ceased now, but we hastily scrambled over the rocks in the direction from which it had come. Pushing out from behind a great bowlder we looked down a little slope upon what at first seemed to be a heap of bowlders. Then we saw that it was the construction of human hands—a habitation. We descended quickly, though almost in silence, only whispering caution to each other. A rolling stone, however, slipped from beneath my foot and went plunging to the side of the hut. A moment later there stepped out into view a curious fur-clad figure—tall, bearded, and with masses of grizzled hair upon his shoulders. An aged man he seemed, but bronzed, erect, and with the movement of strength.
A moment he looked at us as if doubting his vision. Then, flinging both arms in the air, he gave a great cry of welcome.
We rushed down and surrounded him. He seized our hands wildly.
“Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you? And why are you here?”
But I besought him with fierce eagerness.
“Tell us, first, who you are!” I commanded, “and why you are here!”
“Oh, it does not matter,” he answered, “I have been dead twenty years! But when I was in the world of men I was called Nicholas Lovejoy.”
“Then,” I shouted, “you are my uncle—for I am Nicholas Chase!”