Nevada. Sing! I'll come, I'll come. I love to hear you sing. (Music pianissimo.) She was singing to the child the whole day long,—the little one sleeping in her cradle. She smiled in her sleep when I stooped to kiss her, and that smile is ever with me. I see it in the first faint, rosy tints of the breaking day, and watch it deepen and broaden into gold—(fiercely)—gold that mocks me, drives me mad. (Music stops.)
Moselle. Come, come, Nevada, you need rest and quiet. (Takes his hand, and leads him into cabin.)
Nevada. Yes, little one, with you. (Music until off.)
Tom. He's safe for to-night.
Silas. Now, if some good Samaritan would take me in, I'd esteem it a favor for which I will pay liberally. (Takes bag from his breast.) Art is my mistress; but, when I get hungry, I turn my eyes from her lovely face to the ground, and dig like the rest of you. There's a little left in the bag.
Tom. You can't pay here.
Vermont. No, tender foot; but you shall bunk with me.
Tom. With you, Vermont? He'll be the first stranger that ever saw the inside of your ranch.
Jube. Dat's so. Swachability ain't no 'count wid him.
Vermont. Come on, stranger: it's jest about the time I fry my bacon.