"There are those," said he, "who say that Pan is dead. They are but blind. Some day, if life is kind, I shall take you to him. When once you hear the immortal music of his oaten pipes you will have discovered the passionate note which will lead you, lead you down the road, over the hills into the far away where youth and the greater love abide, as was meant from the beginning of the world.... Long live the great Pan," cried he.
Then, as if suddenly coming back to this as from another world, his eyes lost their preternatural expression and became wistful and kind and merry.
"And what do you think of it all, my children?" said he, with a sweep of his hand, which was meant to include all the splendid things he had been telling us. It never seemed to occur to him that he doubtless spoke of much which was utter mystery so far as we were concerned. But that was characteristic of the man. He talked to Nance and me in very much the same manner in which he spoke with Doctor Longstreet.
Nance's reply came as a surprise to me. I was glad her Aunt Barbara was not numbered among those present. With slow and serious mien she said:
"Some day, Jean François, I shall be a gipsy with you."
"Ah, my little jade," said he, with an obvious note of sympathy and gratitude in his voice, "so you have heard the call of the road?... Yes, there will come a time when we'll go hand in hand down the traffic lands. We'll roam forever and a day, forever and away.... You shall help me cry my wares."
Then, seeing in Nance's face a look which took him at his word, and upon mine questionings bordering upon alarm, he burst into hearty laughter, restoring our poise, and cried:
"You must not take too seriously, my dears, the nonsense of the happy pedler!"
"What of you?" he asked, quickly turning to me. "Have you heard it too—the call of the road? No?"
As for me, I'm distinctly of the town. So, using a phrase kin to his own, I replied: