“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee, where the coyotes howl ee-e—”
The song trailed off into nothing.
He stood there too astounded to move. The voice was that of a girl.
“It must be that girl, Berley Todd. But she—she screamed.”
Having regained his power of motion, he rounded the spruce tree’s spreading branches.
And then the moon rolled out from behind a cloud.
What he saw held him spellbound. There stood the girl, her graceful figure swathed in dew-drenched clothing, her face scanning the black waters as she still sang:
“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairee—”
A gasp of astonishment from his lips startled her. She turned with the suddenness of a frightened deer. Then, as she saw his figure outlined against the spruce tree, she cried:
“It is you! I’m glad. I’m drenched with the dews of Heaven. I’m frozen to a statue. Please, let’s hurry!”