Not until her courage had been strengthened by a steaming cup of coffee brewed over a fire before the tent was Greta ready to tell her companion of the mysterious sounds in the night.
“Only a crazy old loon,” was Florence’s prompt solution.
“A loon may be a bright bird,” Greta said laughingly, with the light of day terror had vanished, “but I’ve never known a loon that can play the Intermezzo from Cavalleria Rusticana.”
“You know what I mean.” Florence threatened her mockingly with her sheath knife. “It was a loon that screamed. They’re very human at times.”
“Not as human as that cry in the night,” the slender girl affirmed with conviction. “I’ll never rest until I’ve solved the mystery of that cry.”
Florence scrambled to her feet. “In that case, we’d better get at its solving at once.”
“Florence!” Greta’s tone was sober. “What would be your reply if right out of the blue a very rich woman would say to you: ‘You have a wonderful future. I will help you, give you money, all you need. You shall study under the great masters. In time you shall be greater than them all.’ What would you say?”
“Why—I—I’d probably say ‘Yes.’”
“But suppose you felt that accepting such an offer would put you in her power. Supposing you had always wanted to be free—free as a bird?”
“I don’t know.” Florence spoke slowly. “Of course in a way I know what you mean. I am just a physical director. All day I put boys and girls through their exercises, teach them to play basketball and handball, instruct them in swimming and all that. Very useful. Makes ’em strong. But not quite like music, don’t you see? Perhaps a musician truly must be free.”