"She hain't hardly equal to sech a ja'nt yet a while. You go down-along by yourself, and me'n' her'll set and wait for you."
"Oh, come," pleaded Fult, insistently, with both voice and eyes.
"I suppose your grandmother is right—I had better not attempt too much climbing the first day," smiled Isabel.
Very reluctantly, Fult departed; and when he was at a safe distance, Aunt Ailsie began, in a low voice, the "Ballad of the Fallon-Kent War":—
"Come all young men and maidens fair
And hear a tale of trouble.
Take warning, boys, shun packing guns,
And likewise liquor's bubble.
"Red Rafe and Fighting Fult, when young,
Both follered driving cattle
Down to the level land; a word
Did plunge them into battle.
"Both being drunk, a brindle steer
Hit sarved as cause for quarrel;
The lie was give, then weepons drawed,
Then two smoking gun-bar'ls.
"Both being wounded bad, hate kept
A-working like slow pizen:
Each vowed that t'other he would kill
The minute he laid eyes on.
"Fult's friends was quick to take his part,
The Kent clan strong did rally,
And War hit fell on Troublesome
Like a land-slip down a valley.
"O Lord, I hate to tell the tale
Of all the woes that followed.
Twenty-five year in troubles sore
The county hit was swallowed.
"For both was men of high degree,
With office in the county;
Fult to the Jail-house held the key,
Rafe drawed the Sheriff's bounty.
"And more and more, as years went by,
Outsiders in hit mingled;
And worse and worse, each day, the war
With politics got tangled.
"See at the Forks the two sides meet,
At Christmas or Election.
The nags they plunge, the bullets whiz,
The guns they bark destruction.
"Beneath the beds the women-folks
And babes they go a-diving,
And all the folks that follers peace
In corners dark are hiving.
"Oh, hear the wounded yell, and see
The nags in franzy tromping
All on the dying men beneath,
Their foamy bits a-chomping.
"And now the battle's over, see
The dead lay cold and torn there,
And hear the women's shrieks and prayers
Upon the breezes borne there.
"Again, Rafe's crew besiege the Jail,
With many a shot and shell, sir;
Fult and his fighting men within,
They shorely give 'em hell, sir.
"Or maybe in the courthouse, when
The proof one side again' goes,
The war busts forth, and jury, judge,
And lawyers seek the windows.
"The years pass on, but not the hate;
Death keeps his toll a-taking;
Rafe's brothers two, and brothers' sons
And many more in-raking.
"And Fult his kin and friends sees die
For him, but still he lingers,
A rifle ever on his arm,
Three pistols nigh his fingers.
"They cannot whip him in fair fray,
So strategy they hatch up.
Rafe feigns to go a journey far,
A bad man for to catch up.
"Him and his men ride off by day,
But back by night they crawl, oh,
And hide away by the main road,
All in a spruce-pine hollow.
"Fult, breathing free at last, rides out,
His thoughts removed from danger;
Both mind and body take the rest
To which they are a stranger.
"He listens at the little birds
That sing the fair day's dawning.
O Fult, you better look around—
The grave for you is yawning!
"Too late, too late; unseen they dash
Upon him from the hollow;
A flash, a cry, and Fighting Fult
All in his gores doth wallow.
"The jury never dairst to bring
Again' Red Rafe a sentence;
On 'self-defense' he triumphed through,
Nor felt the first repentance.
"But where's Young Fult? By day and night
He's practising on gun-play,
And on his eighteenth birth, he rides
To meet Rafe, on a Sunday.
"He takes his life all in his hand;
He cares not for the danger,
All set upon the holy task
To be his paw's revenger.
"There in the open road they met,
All honest, fair and just, oh;
But Heaven aimed the bullet swift
That laid Rafe in the dust low.
"O Fulty, you've revenged your paw,
You've done your utmost duty;
No man can curl the lip of scorn
At you, in your young beauty.
"I know hit's hard on you to lay
And pine in Frankfort prison;
I'd ruther be there, though, admired,
Than safe home, in derision.
"The hearts of all is turnt to you
In love and fond affection;
And here we sing this ballad true
To keep you in recollection."
When, a moment later, Fult, alert, graceful, perfect in physical beauty, came in sight, moving rapidly up through the thick timber below, Isabel felt as if, in his person, Romance itself, beloved of the ages, wept, honored, and sung, was advancing swiftly toward her from out the veils and shadows of bygone centuries.
VII
THE FUNERAL OCCASION
After the first month of the women's stay on Troublesome, there was a change in their daily programme, on account of the beginning of the public-school term the fourth week in July.
The school at The Forks was taught by Giles Kent, Uncle Ephraim's grandson and Darcy's cousin—a quiet, studious young man, who had been all along the most voracious reader of the brought-on books. When his school opened, with nearly two hundred scholars of all ages, and grades from first to eighth, to instruct in the three R's, and only one pupil-assistant to help him, he was only too glad to have the women continue their singing, sewing, and cooking classes in connection with his work. Cynthia Fallon offered the use of two rooms in her hotel, opposite the schoolhouse; various citizens lent tables, chairs, a stove, and tinware; and the cooking teacher established herself in one hotel room, while in the other Amy, assisted by Isabel, taught sewing, Isabel also going over to the schoolhouse every morning for an opening half-hour of singing. The kindergarten was still held on the hill all morning; and after school the young folks still gathered there for the play-hour, and often came up again after supper for a "sing."