“Hush! Hush!” she said. “We are going to the Happy Valleys. Don’t you hear him calling”?... And Lazenby fell back.
The Tall Master was now playing a wonderful thing, half dance, half carnival; but with that Call still beating through it. They were passing the Fort at an angle. All within issued forth to see. Suddenly the old trader who had come that morning started forward with a cry; then stood still. He caught the Factor’s arm; but he seemed unable to speak yet; his face was troubled, his eyes were hard upon the player.
The procession passed the empty lodges, leaving the ground strewn with their weapons, and not one of their number stayed behind. They passed away towards the high hills of the north-west-beautiful austere barriers.
Still the trader gazed, and was pale, and trembled. They watched long. The throng of pilgrims grew a vague mass; no longer an army of individuals; and the music came floating back with distant charm. At last the old man found voice. “My God, it is—”
The Factor touched his arm, interrupting him, and drew a picture from his pocket—one but just now taken from that musty pile of books, received so many years before. He showed it to the old man.
“Yes, yes,” said the other, “that is he.... And the world buried him forty years ago!”
Pierre, standing near, added with soft irony: “There are strange things in the world. He is the gamester of the world. ‘Mais’ a grand comrade also.”
The music came waving back upon them delicately but the pilgrims were fading from view.
Soon the watchers were alone with the glowing day.