Sometimes, too, he would try to sing as the woman had sung who passed that summer time.
One evening in the middle of winter Hansei and his mother started out to a bit of woods skirting the other side of the yellow road. Hansei sang as they went; it was half what the woman had sung and half like nothing that was ever heard. Sometimes this tune made his mother smile a little, but oftener she did not hear it.
As they crossed the yellow road his mother stopped and looked, as she always did.
"Hark!" she said, hushing the singing with her hand. Hansei stood still and listened. Yes, yes, they were coming—"the others." It sounded again as it had the day the men had ridden by, only more—more; and they were coming nearer. There were voices and the beat of footsteps, and sometimes Hansei heard a strange sound that might be singing or wind moaning.
Hansei said: "I am so afraid." But his mother did not hear him. He hid his face in her gown and waited. They were coming on and on; and they were saying something together,—strange words that Hansei had never heard. Nearer and nearer! He felt them passing close where he and his mother stood; he raised his head and looked.
He saw a long dark line of men, some riding and some walking. Their heads were bent, and they said the strange words together. Sometimes there was a burst like song, then the words again. There was one torch.
Slowly they made their way down the yellow road. Hansei and his mother watched them as they went.
He whispered, "Where are they going?"
"Down there," said the mother softly. "It is the Christ-child's night."
"Why do they go?"