he looked inquiringly, first at Monsieur Garon, then at the
Cure. "Why Parpon?" he said searchingly.

The Cure, amazed, spread out his hands in a helpless way. At that moment
Sylvie announced Parpon. Armand asked that he should be sent in. "We'll
talk of the will afterwards," he added.

Parpon trotted in, the door closed, and he stood blinking at them.
Armand put a stool on the table. "Sit here, Parpon," he said. Medallion
caught the dwarf under the arms and lifted him on the table.

Parpon looked at Armand furtively. "The wild hawk comes back to its
nest," he said. "Well, well, what is it you want with the poor Parpon?"

He sat down and dropped his chin in his hands, looking round keenly.
Armand nodded to Medallion, and Medallion to the priest, but the priest
nodded back again. Then Medallion said: "You and I know the Rock of
Red Pigeons, Parpon. It is a good place to perch. One's voice is all
to one's self there, as you know. Well, sing us the song of the little
brown diver."

Parpon's hands twitched in his beard. He looked fixedly at Medallion.
Presently he turned towards the Cure, and shrank so that he looked
smaller still.

"It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on
Medallion, Parpon said: "When was it you heard?"

Medallion told him. He nodded, then sat very still. They said nothing,
but watched him. They saw his eyes grow distant and absorbed, and his
face took on a shining look, so that its ugliness was almost beautiful.
All at once he slid from the stool and crouched on his knees. Then he
sent out a low long note, like the toll of the bell-bird. From that time
no one stirred as he sang, but sat and watched him. They did not even
hear Sylvie steal in gently and stand in the curtains at the door.

The song was weird, with a strange thrilling charm; it had the slow
dignity of a chant, the roll of an epic, the delight of wild beauty.
It told of the little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, in vague allusive
phrases: their noiseless wanderings; their sojourning with the eagle,
the wolf, and the deer; their triumph over the winds, the whirlpools,
and the spirits of evil fame. It filled the room with the cry of the
west wind; it called out of the frozen seas ghosts of forgotten worlds;
it coaxed the soft breezes out of the South; it made them all to be at
the whistle of the Scarlet Hunter who ruled the North.

Then, passing through veil after veil of mystery, it told of a grand
Seig