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Pierre and Shon McGann, watching from the Fort, cried out with excitement.

“Divils me darlin’!” called Shon, “are we gluin’ our eyes to a chink in the wall, whin the tangle of battle goes on beyand? Bedad, I’ll not stand it! Look at them twistin’ the neck o’ war! Open the gates, open the gates say I, and let us have play with our guns.”

“Hush! ‘Mon Dieu!'” interrupted Pierre. “Look! The Tall Master!”

None at the Fort had seen the Tall Master since the night before. Now he was covering the space between the walls and the battle, his hair streaming behind him.

When he came near to the vortex of fight he raised his violin to his chin, and instantly a piercingly sweet call penetrated the wild uproar. The Call filled it, drained through it, wrapped it, overcame it; so that it sank away at last like the outwash of an exhausted tide: the weft of battle stayed unfinished in the loom.

Then from the Indian lodges came the women and children. They drew near to the unearthly luxury of that Call, now lifting with an unbounded joy. Battleaxes fell to the ground; the warriors quieted even where they stood locked with their foes. The Tall Master now drew away from them, facing the north and west. That ineffable Call drew them after him with grave joy; and they brought their dead and wounded along. The women and children glided in among the men and followed also. Presently one girl ran away from the rest and came close into the great leader’s footsteps.

At that instant, Lazenby, from the wall of the Fort, cried out madly, sprang down, opened the gates, and rushed towards the girl, crying: “Wine Face! Wine Face!”

She did not look behind. But he came close to her and caught her by the waist. “Come back! Come back! O my love, come back!” he urged; but she pushed him gently from her.

“Hush! Hush!” she said. “We are going to the Happy Valleys. Don’t you hear him calling”?… And Lazenby fell back.

The Tall Master was now playing a wonderful thing, half dance, half carnival; but with that Call still beating through it. They were passing the Fort at an angle. All within issued forth to see. Suddenly the old trader who had come that morning started forward with a cry; then stood still. He caught the Factor’s arm; but he seemed unable to speak yet; his face was troubled, his eyes were hard upon the player.

The procession passed the empty lodges, leaving the ground strewn with their weapons, and not one of their number stayed behind. They passed away towards the high hills of the north-west-beautiful austere barriers.

Still the trader gazed, and was pale, and trembled. They watched long. The throng of pilgrims grew a vague mass; no longer an army of individuals; and the music came floating back with distant charm. At last the old man found voice. “My God, it is–“

The Factor touched his arm, interrupting him, and drew a picture from his pocket–one but just now taken from that musty pile of books, received so many years before. He showed it to the old man.

“Yes, yes,” said the other, “that is he…. And the world buried him forty years ago!”

Pierre, standing near, added with soft irony: “There are strange things in the world. He is the gamester of the world. ‘Mais’ a grand comrade also.”

The music came waving back upon them delicately but the pilgrims were fading from view.

Soon the watchers were alone with the glowing day.