“No.”
“You must.”
“Good. I shall,” said Jeanne.
“The legend is about Monument Rock,” said the old man. “It is just over yonder. If it were daytime I might point it out to you—the rock, I mean.
“You see,” he settled back in his place, “before the white man came, no one lived on the island, that is, hardly anyone.
“Indians came in their great canoes to hunt and to crack away rocks and gather great copper nuggets which they beat into spear points and arrowheads. But when the dark whispering trees cast their shadows on the bay they seemed to hear voices saying: ‘This is no fit place for man to live. This is the home of all island gods.’ And always they hurried to their canoes and went paddling away. That is,” his voice seemed to trail off, “almost always.” From somewhere far away a faint echo murmured “Almost always.”
For a time they sat there, the aged man and the blonde-haired girl, lost in meditation, contemplating the beauty of the night.
“Ah,” the old man breathed at last. “It is magnificent, all this. God made it glorious and man has done little to mar it.
“Once,” his voice grew mellow, “a few years back, when there were more people here and there were joyous young people with us, we held a night party on the little island, just over there.
“Those young people sang beneath the stars.” His voice was low—“They sang as no one had sung before, sang to life, beauty and joy, to God, who is all these.