As if a door had suddenly opened into that lighted room of which he dreamed, Miles felt a sense of tranquillity, of happiness stirring through him. Never in his life had he known such a sudden utter confidence in any one, such a glow of eager friendliness as this half-seen, mysterious stranger inspired. “It is because I was lonelier than I knew,” he said mentally. “It is because human companionship gives courage to the most self-reliant of us;” and somewhere in the words he was aware of a false note, but he did not stop to place it.
The low, even voice of the stranger spoke again. “There are Indians on your trail,” he said. “A small band of Black Wolf’s scouts. But don’t be troubled. They will not hurt you.”
“You escaped from them?” demanded Miles eagerly, and again the light of a swift smile shone into the night. “You came to save me—how was it? Tell me, so that we can plan. It is very dark yet, but hadn’t we better ride? Where is your horse?”
He threw the earnest questions rapidly across the black night, and the unhurried voice answered him. “No,” it said, and the verdict was not to be disputed. “You must stay here.”
Who this man might be or how he came Miles could not tell, but this much he knew, without reason for knowing it; it was some one stronger than he, in whom he could trust. As the new-comer had said, it would be time enough later to understand the rest. Wondering a little at his own swift acceptance of an unknown authority, wondering more at the peace which wrapped him as an atmosphere at the sound of the stranger’s voice, Miles made a place for him by his side, and the two talked softly to the plashing undertone of the stream.
Easily, naturally, Miles found himself telling how he had been homesick, longing for his people. He told him of the big familiar room, and of the old things that were in it, that he loved; of his mother; of little Alice, and her baby adoration for the big brother; of how they had always sung hymns together Sunday night; he never for a moment doubted the stranger’s interest and sympathy—he knew that he cared to hear.
“There is a hymn,” Miles said, “that we used to sing a lot—it was my favorite; ’Miles’s hymn,’ the family called it. Before you came to-night, while I lay there getting lonelier every minute, I almost thought I heard them singing it. You may not have heard it, but it has a grand swing. I always think”—he hesitated—“it always seems to me as if the God of battles and the beauty of holiness must both have filled the man’s mind who wrote it.” He stopped, surprised at his own lack of reserve, at the freedom with which, to this friend of an hour, he spoke his inmost heart.
“I know,” the stranger said gently. There was silence for a moment, and then the wonderful low tones, beautiful, clear, beyond any voice Miles had ever heard, began again, and it was as if the great sweet notes of an organ whispered the words:
“God shall charge His angel legions
Watch and ward o’er thee to keep;
Though thou walk through hostile regions,
Though in desert wilds thou sleep.”