His horse, which had been placed in the inn stable, was brought out; Ben mounted and struck out north, meaning finally to turn into the Germantown road. He entered this some distance beyond the city limits; the night was moonlit, but there was a haze hanging over everything which waved from tree and bush, in the light breeze, like long, gauzy streamers of white. He had gone quite some distance on his way when at length he made out a peculiar sound, a steady rising and falling, of which he for a long time could make nothing. Finally, however, he understood, and laughed.
“It’s some one singing,” he said.
The sound was behind him, and coming through the waving banners of mist, edge-lit in the moonlight, it produced a weird effect. He drew in his horse, after a time, in order to hear the better; away in his mind was the impression that he had heard the music somewhere before.
Nearer and nearer drew the singer, the fall of hoofs now mingled with the song; listening, Ben at last recalled the mournful melody.
“It is one of the songs sung by Paddy Burk on the night I met him by the Bristol road.”
Then amid the clatter of oncoming hoofs the words of the song became plain.
“Oh, ye Irish lads of fair renown,
Come listen unto me;
And I’ll relate a bitter fate
That happened on the sea;