We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’”
It was the low voice of a man singing to himself,—a quavering, senile voice.
Pollock climbed upon the stake-and-rider fence and watched and listened. Some one was walking through the corn with irregular step, chanting in a strained, high voice.
The charred stump of an old tree rose almost as high as the corn and presently, as Pollock watched and listened, the figure of the singer reached and clambered upon it. Pollock sprang down among the corn and crept closer. There was something weird and fascinating in the chant that continued to rise from the solitary figure on the stump. The outline of a man was now quite clearly defined,—an unquiet figure, that moved its arms fantastically, and once or twice, as the refrain ceased, it laughed in a harsh way.
Pollock had drawn quite near between the tall ranks of corn.
“‘We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’ Ha, ha, ha! Rejoicing; yes, it shall be with rejoicing!”
There was no mistaking the figure or the voice now. Dameron’s sharp features were plainly distinguishable. He was without his hat; he sat stiffly on the tree-stump, with his shoulders erect and his legs barely touching the ground. Suddenly he raised his long arms toward the heavens as though in supplication:
“Make it grow; make the corn grow, O merciful heavens! Then I shall be rich. I shall be very rich. And Zelda, she shall be rich, too. O corn, O beautiful corn!”
His shoulders drooped and he seemed about to collapse. Then he straightened himself with sudden energy.
“Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves;