“I swung her father’s drum again before me and gave, in cataracts of sound, or murmuring cascades, the sentiments of my heart.
“‘Wonderful! Oh, wonderful!’ she cried, entranced; so I played on.
“The moon went into a cloud; the glade of a sudden darkened; I ceased my playing, swung the drum again behind, and turned for Margory.
“She was gone!
“I cried her name as I ran through the forest, but truly she was gone.”
Urquhart stopped his story and eagerly dashed some lines upon the clay. “Pardon!” he said. “Just like that, for a moment. Ah! that is something like it!”
“Well, well!” I cried. “And what followed?”
“I think—indeed, I know—she loved me, but—I went back to the war without a single word from her again.”
“Oh, to the deuce with your story!” I cried at that, impatient. “I did not bargain for a tragedy.”
“In truth it is something of a farce, as you shall discover in a moment,” said the sculptor. “Next day the captain sent for me. ‘Do you know General Fraser?’ said he, looking at a letter he held in his hand. I told him I had not the honour. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘it looks as if the family had a curious penchant for the drum, to judge from the fact that his brother gave yours to the regiment, and also’—here he smiled slyly—’from the interest of his niece. He is not an hour returned from Spain to his native town when he asks me to send you with your drum to his house at noon.’