He took his place at the piano, and to his own accompaniment sang with great spirit, in a strong baritone voice, the old English song, "A Hunting We Will Go."
The applause was as enthusiastic as the spirit in which he had sung, and he was pressed for an encore. The consul replied with mock stage bows, but refused to sing again. He had done his part in chasing away the blue devils of homesickness. Now it was some other body's turn to perform. He knew Miss MacAllister could sing. Would she not continue the good work and give them something rousing?
Miss MacAllister did not wait to be urged, but responded at once. Her voice was a rich, strong soprano. With a verve and fire worthy of her choice, she sang Lady Nairn's stirring war-song, "The Hundred Pipers." To the insistent demand for another song she replied with "The March of the Cameron Men." With her stately figure at its full height, head thrown back, and eyes which seemed to look away beyond her tropic surroundings to the hills of old Scotland, she sang as if possessed by the spirit of generations of Highland ancestors.
Sinclair, from his place over by the mantel-piece, was looking at her with undisguised admiration.
"Isn't she magnificent? Yon's a prize for some man! ... Sinclair, man, why don't you go in and win? If you don't try, I'll be ashamed of you, whatever."
It was McLeod. He was speaking in a low tone, only for his friend's ear. But he who had been the personification of coolness during the typhoon was now fairly quivering with excitement. The songs of his people had fired his blood.
"You needn't be ashamed of me, Mac. I'm going to try."
"Good for you! I'll back you to win."
"Don't stake too much on me, Mac. I'm new to this game. You might lose heavily. Carteret is ahead of me."
"That dirty snob!" exclaimed McLeod in a tone of disgust. "He wants her in just the same way as he wants every pretty woman he sees. And then her money would help to repair the Carteret fortunes. It's an insult to a good woman to mention him in relation to her."