“Father,” he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, “when you hear a sweet horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?”
“P’r’aps. Why, Dominique?” He made up his mind to humour the boy, though it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and women with these fancies—and they had died.
“I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps he’s calling someone that’s lost.”
“Mebbe.”
“And I heard a voice singing—it wasn’t a bird tonight.”
“There was no voice, Dominique.”
“Yes, yes.” There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty of the lad. “I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words.”
“What were the words?” In spite of himself the hunter felt awed.
“I’ve heard mother sing them, or something most like them:
“Why does the fire no longer burn?
(I am so lonely.)
Why does the tent-door swing outward?
(I have no home.)
Oh, let me breathe hard in your face!
(I am so lonely.)
Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me?
(I have no home.)”