She was glad of this meeting with Ingolby. It had helped her. She had set out to do a thing she dreaded, and it was easier now than it would have been if they had not met. She had been on her way to the Hut in the Wood, and now the dread of the visit to Jethro Fawe had diminished. The last voice she would hear before she entered Jethro Fawe's prison was that of the man who represented to her, however vaguely, the life which must be her future—the settled life, the life of Society and not of the Saracen.
After he had told his boyhood story they sat in silence for a moment or two, then she rose, and, turning to him, was about to speak. At that instant there came distinctly through the wood a faint, trilling sound. Her face paled a little, and the words died upon her lips. Ingolby, having turned his head as though to listen, did not see the change in her face, and she quickly regained her self-control.
"I heard that sound before," he said, "and I thought from your look you heard it, too. It's funny. It is singing, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's singing," she answered.
"Who is it—some of the heathen from the Reservation?"
"Yes, some of the heathen," she answered.
"Has Tekewani got a lodge about here?"
"He had one here in the old days."
"And his people go to it still-was that where you were going when I broke in on you?"
"Yes, I was going there. I am a heathen, also, you know."