"Ye were interested in it, though, years ago, for ye told us so."
"Aye, that was when I was younger than I am now. But my friends and family are all dead, and I am an old man. The rifle gives me all that I need; the spring that gushes forth from under the big rock gives all my drink; I am content to be as I am until God calls me hence; and then I shall go where there is no injustice and where traitorous friends shall be rewarded according to their due and all wrong righted; I am content."
The old man had finished cleaning his rifle; he entered the cabin and returned with a battered violin. Placing it tenderly 'neath his chin, he proceeded gently to draw the old bow across the strings, gently as if he was loathe to awaken the slumbering form on the bearskins near at hand. But the first, faint tones, quivering and like a child's cry, awakened the sleeper. He turned his eyes to Hugh and smiled a welcome and then extended his hand.
"Ah, Hugh, old fellow, glad to see you back and well. I heard that you had returned," shaking Hugh's hand as he knelt down beside him, "and wondered why you didn't come over and see your fellow soldier. Poor Dick is gone, though, and the maps are lost."
"And Hunter Tom says it's useless to try and find the mine," said Hugh, regretfully.
"It may be useless, but we can try. You know that it's not for the silver alone that I'm looking, Hugh."
"Aye, I ken well enou' that."
"Tom, could you play us something. You didn't know, Hugh, that Hunter Tom is a player. He can make the violin talk, and he has often made me cheerful when I felt sad."
Hunter Tom readjusted the violin, and forth upon the afternoon air, silencing the birds for a time and rivalling them in sweetness, pealed the tones of the old violin. It was a martial strain at first that seemed to swell and soar like some triumphant march of some hero returning from the wars. The stream back of the cabin seemed to roar in harmony with the melody, like the thrilling chords of some giant bass viol. The blood mounted to Ande's cheeks as he listened, and his eyes brightened. The pilot gazed at the figure of the old hunter with awe and reverence. If the melody was warlike and stirring the figure of the old man was more so; yes, it was imposing, like some old Viking, who had dared the deep and conquered it; the hunter's figure straightened, his eye flashed, and his hoary locks and beard, stirred by the breeze, appeared to roll away from his head and features like the dashing waters of some cataract from its rocky crest. On and on went the melody, soaring and wildly triumphant with its strong major chords. Then, almost imperceptibly, there was the change to the minor key, and then a number of changes from one to the other, and the effect was like hearing the distant murmur of crashing pieces of artillery. At times there would be a wild shriek from the upper chords and then the same repetition of booming artillery fire. The old man seemed to be giving a musical history of one of his own battles. Then, all of a sudden, all was in the minor key, soft and sorrowful. There was a wailing hopelessness in the tones. The old man's form ceased to tower at his full height, his head sank lower and more lovingly upon the violin, and the strains were like the requiem of a lost soul. The pallor returned to Ande's cheeks and Hugh bowed his head in his hands. The leaves o'erhead rustled in whispering sympathy, and here and there one would fall—a crimson tear from the eye of a giant.
The melody ceased.