Old Hunter Tom seemed wrapped up in the melody and utterly oblivious to all things around him. With a low plaintive interlude, he continued:
"Yet bird of the wilderness, sad is our lot,
Our home confiscated, our name a sad blot;
The Cornish chief stricken at Prestonpan's fight,
Wounded at Culloden for King and the right,
And captured at Braddock's defeat in the glen
Was——"
There was an outcry from one of the auditors, that interrupted the melody.
"Hunter Tom! Hunter Tom! Where did you get that song? Where?"
The old man had paused with the bow in midair, and with a vexed look at being interrupted, and then, seeing the flushed countenance and gleaming eyes of his patient, thought the heat was too much for him, and that his head was affected.
"The heat of the sun has affected his head, Hugh. Come let us get him in the shade."
"No! No! Where did you get that melody?" excitedly.
"I told ye that I was going to sing ye some of my own songs. It's my own song, lad," soothingly, "and now, Hugh——"