“No, no,” said he. “It will pass.”
I sat down by his side, hearkening dismally to the croaking of the frogs, watching the sombre flying bats.
Suddenly there came a sound of singing. It was that magical high treble voice which had sung before my brother died. Thus it came, small and faint, yet perfectly clear:
He led his little pilgrim band
In thirst and hunger, frost and fire,
Unto a very pleasant land,
Unto a land of heart’s desire.
It affected me with a sort of awe; so that, when it ceased, I was as one spell-bound, and could not at first move or speak.
“What is it?” said I. “It came before my brother died.”
“Ay,” said Ambrose in a quaking voice, “It means death.”