And He will be your aid!"
Roaring the rude chorus, Jack Mount marched in the lead, his swinging strides measured to our horses' steady pacing; beside him trotted the little Weasel, his hand holding tightly to the giant's arm; and sometimes he took three steps to Mount's one, and sometimes he toddled, his little, leather-bound legs twinkling like spokes in a wheel, but ever he chanted manfully as he marched:
"O trust in the Lord,
And He will be your aid!"
And Shemuel's fervent whine from his lowly saddle rounded out the old route-song.
An hour later I summoned Jack Mount, and he fell back to my stirrups, resting his huge hand on my saddle as he walked beside me.
"Jack," I said, "is poor Cade cured o' fancy and his mad imaginings?"
"Ay, lad, for the time."
"For the time?"
"A year, two years, three, perhaps. This is not the first mad flight o' fancy Cade has taken on his aged wings."