"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 humor 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. P'r'aps he's calling some one that's lost."

"Mebbe."

"And I heard a voice singing--it wasn't a bird to-night."

"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!