"Dr. Sinclair has shown wonderful versatility in his choice of songs this evening. English, French, negro, he sings them all with equal facility. I wonder if he would not favour us with a Canadian Indian song. I have never heard any of their music. I should so love to have the opportunity. Will you not sing us one, Dr. Sinclair?"
Her face wore an expression of childlike innocence and interest. But McLeod thought he saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mr. MacAllister looked at his daughter with a puzzled face and shook his head a little. The consul eyed her doubtfully, as though trying to fathom the purpose behind this request. He saw nothing but the appearance of almost infantile guilelessness. Then he heard Sinclair saying:
"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. I am happy to do anything in my power to serve you. Only it is a little hard on Mr. Beauchamp to ask him even to chord to a type of music he may never have heard before."
"Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair. I am all anxiety to hear you."
Then she added:
"I am sure Mr. Beauchamp will be able to accompany you. He is a man of infinite resource in music." For she was afraid that Sinclair's concern about placing the consul in a difficult position was only an attempt to provide a loop-hole for his own escape.
A buzz of conversation broke out in the room while Sinclair bent over the instrument, softly humming a slow, stately measure, and the consul's fingers felt for the harmonious chords. Soon the voice and the chords were moving together in harmony.
"That may be an Indian tune," said Beauchamp, "but it sounds remarkably like certain bars from an old sixteenth-century mass I had to practise when a boy until my fingers were nearly worn out."
"Perhaps the Indians learned it from the early Roman Catholic missionaries," was the quick reply. "In any case, I fancy it is the sound of the language Miss MacAllister wishes to hear rather than the music."
"If you like, I shall play the tune for you. I remember it perfectly."