Ernest, sitting thus, would pluck at his banjo and sing to the stars, finding ease thus for his homesick heart. Roger sat in silent contemplation, now of the fire, now of the stars. In spite of his impatience over petty details, he was happier than he had been since his undergraduate days. The marvelous low-lying stars, the little glow of fire on Ernest's pleasant face, the sweet tenor voice and the mellow plunking of the banjo were a wonderful background for his happy dreams. Roger still believed that a man's work could fill every desire of his mind and soul.
"I have so loved thee,"
(sang Ernest one evening),
"But cannot, cannot hold thee.
Fading like a dream the shadows fold thee,
Slowly thy perfect beauty fades away,
Good-by, sweet day! Good-by, sweet day!"
There was the soft thud of a footstep in the sand and an Indian appeared in the soft glow of the fire. Ernest broke off his song, abruptly. The newcomer was of indeterminate age, with black hair falling nearly to his waist over a bright red flannel shirt. He wore black trousers girdled at the waist by a broad twist of blue silk. His feet were bare.
"How!" he said, nodding and smiling. "I hear music way out. Come see maybe white medicine man."
"Good evening," returned Ernest. "Sit down by the fire."
"How'd you like a job?" asked Roger. "Did Mr. Preble send you?"
"No job!" The Indian shook his head. "Sick!"
"Is that so?" Roger's voice was sympathetic. "My friend's a good medicine man. Where are you sick?"