He watched them out of sight and then choked in his throat. For, at the waving of their hands, where the road was lost to view, all that largess of which they had communed was gone. He thought to run and follow them, but he heard a song—yet turned and strode the beach with a great exultation. The song came nearer, but not more rapidly than his resolution crystallized. And when she who sang came in sight of him, he was looking obliviously out upon the booming ocean, his hand above his eyes, as if trying to pierce the misty horizon which baffled his vision, and where lay that exulting world of liberty.
And she who sung was glad to see him thus. For he was the goodliest being she had ever had in her heart. His tunic was a black wolf’s skin—his legs were swathed in other skins—the fur turned in—and gartered with strips of furred hide—about his neck was a string of wolf’s teeth—on his feet were huge shoes of skin such as his robe—his hair was fair and long—his head was never covered.
She ceased her song and came before him. Yet he gazed.
“Soul of my soul, what seest thou?” she asked.
He came back with a sigh and smile for her.
“‘The Land of the Brave and the Home of the Free.’”
“Nay, for that thou wouldst look at thy feet. For thou standest on the land of the brave. And the home of the free is yonder.”
“The land of a despot,” he laughed, “asking all, giving naught.”
“Then thou art its despot—for it is thy land—thou art its king. Oh, it is small I grant! But it is ours. No other land can ever be. Our fathers dying gave it to us.”
“See!” he cried, turning what the travellers had given him into a prodigal golden shower from his scrip upon the ground.