Dallas hesitated, then he said, "I will, if you wish it. I can sing a little sad song about a young man who was going to die and be buried in the cold ground, and he begged his dear young sweetheart to walk among the rustling leaves over his grave, and think about him."
Cassowary nodded encouragingly, and the boy threw back his young head and in his sweet pathetic voice begged and prayed some dear French girl to remember him.
"Rappelle-moi, rappelle-moi," he sang, and the sound was so sweet and piercing that it affected my ears sadly. I twitched and twitched them and finally had to rub them against the bark of a young elm. Ponies and dogs too can hear so much more acutely than human beings, that music is sometimes like needle points to our ears.
However, my emotion was nothing to the Russian's. He trembled on his strong legs, his mouth gaped, he took off his cap and threw it on the grass. When the boy's voice was at last still, the Russian lifted his head. Tears were running down his cheeks, and he poured out a lot of talk to the soldier, who smiled and said with an apologetic glance at the young girl,
"Bolshy thinks that the boy sings as well as a man—much better than the beautiful lady did, though she had a voice like a bird's."
"That's because they have men's singing only in the Greek churches," remarked Cassowary. "I don't believe the boy would sing better than——" Then she stopped suddenly and pointed to Bolshy.
The big man was coming slowly over the grass, and reaching my young master he took the hem of his coat and pressed it to his lips.
"Glory be!" said the soldier. "That's what we've been working for. Something to break his crust. I'll bet he's thinking of home and mother."
Poor creature! he evidently was, for he was pointing away to the east, and pouring forth a most troubled account of something to Dallas, who nodded sympathetically.
The soldier turned to Dallas. "You'll help me a lot if you tell him to trust me. I mean well by him."