had opened up the big
sluices of his nature, and let the light of God flood in. No, there was
another: the one Lucette made on the day that they were married, when a
wonderful timid reverence played through his hungry love for her.

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