There was something ethereal in the clear tones. The last time he had heard anything like them he was sitting one Sunday morning on a shady lawn while the call of the bells came softly up to him across the English woods. He glanced at his comrades, but they showed no sign of hearing, and raising himself on one elbow he lay and listened, until the music, growing fainter and fainter, died away. Then, puzzled and half convinced that his imagination had played him some fantastic trick, he went to sleep.
He mentioned the occurrence diffidently at breakfast the next morning, expecting incredulous laughter; but Lisle, without making a comment, glanced at Jake questioningly.
“No,” responded Jake. “Nothing to bring them up so far.”
“You couldn’t have been mistaken?” Lisle asked Nasmyth.
“I thought I must be; but the more I listened, the clearer it got.”
“Go and see,” Lisle said, addressing Jake, and when they had finished breakfast the packer strode away.
“We’ll wait a bit,” advised Lisle. “I’m a little worried about provisions again. It’s still a long march to the nearest wagon trail.”
Nasmyth failed to understand how the delay would improve their position, but believing that his companion was somewhat dubious about his tale he restrained his curiosity. In half an hour Jake came back and nodded to Lisle.
“Quite a bunch of them,” he reported. “I struck the fellow’s trail.”
“What was it I heard?” Nasmyth asked.