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Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion or gesture, the boy’s eyes opened wide with a strange, intense look.

“Father,” he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, “when you hear a sweet horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?”

“P’r’aps. Why, Dominique?” He made up his mind to humour the boy, though it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and women with these fancies–and they had died.

“I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps he’s calling someone that’s lost.”

“Mebbe.”

“And I heard a voice singing–it wasn’t a bird tonight.”

“There was no voice, Dominique.”

“Yes, yes.” There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty of the lad. “I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words.”

“What were the words?” In spite of himself the hunter felt awed.

“I’ve heard mother sing them, or something most like them:

“Why does the fire no longer burn?
(I am so lonely.)
Why does the tent-door swing outward?
(I have no home.)
Oh, let me breathe hard in your face!
(I am so lonely.)
Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me?
(I have no home.)”

The boy paused.

“Was that all, Dominique?”

“No, not all.”

“Let us make friends with the stars;
(I am so lonely.)
Give me your hand, I will hold it.
(I have no home.)
Let us go hunting together.
(I am so lonely.)
We will sleep at God’s camp to-night.
(I have no home.)”

Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting inflection.

“What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?”

“I don’t know. Who told–your mother–the song?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose she just made them up–she and God…. There! There it is again? Don’t you hear it–don’t you hear it, daddy?”

“No, Dominique, it’s only the kettle singing.”

“A kettle isn’t a voice. Daddy–” He paused a little, then went on, hesitatingly–“I saw a white swan fly through the door over your shoulder, when you came in to-night.”

“No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder.”

“But it looked at me with two shining eyes.”

“That was two stars shining through the door, my son.”

“How could there be snow flying and stars shining too, father?”

“It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining above, Dominique.”

The man’s voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry, hunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of a human soul. The swan had come in–would it go out alone? He touched the boy’s hand–it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse–it ran high; he watched the face–it had a glowing light. Something stirred within him, and passed like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. Through his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. As though a voice said to him there, “Someone hath touched me,” he got to his feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed them on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as he had seen his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs from a branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles. After a short pause he came slowly to the head of the boy’s bed. Very solemnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips of his fingers, and brought them to his lips with an indescribable reverence. After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the face of the crucified figure, he said, in a shaking voice:

“Pardon, bon Jesu! Sauvez mon enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!”