autumn winds. It burst above the crackling fire and the tumult of man
and dog in a weird and savage beauty that hushed all sound; and life
about him became like life struck suddenly dead. With his head bowed
Jan saw nothing--saw nothing of the wonder in the faces of the half-
cringing little black men who were squatted in a group a dozen feet
away, nothing of the staring amazement in the eyes that were looking
upon this miracle he was performing. He knew only that about him there
was a deep hush, and after a while his violin sang a lower song, and
sweeter; and still softer it became, and more sweet, until he was
playing that which he loved most of all--the music that had filled the
little cabin when Cummins' wife died.

As he continued to play there came an interruption to the silence--a
low refrain that was almost like that of the moaning wind. It grew
beyond the tense circle of men, until a song of infinite sadness rose
from the throats of a hundred dogs in response to Jan Thoreau's
violin. To Jan, it was like the song of life. The unending loneliness
and grief of it stirred him to the quick of his soul, and
unconsciously his voice rose and fell softly with the wailing of the
brute chorus. But to the others it was a thing that rose portentous
above their understanding, a miracle of mystery that smote them with
awe even as they surrendered themselves to the wonderful sweetness of
the music.

Cummins saw the change in his people, and understood what it meant. He
saw the surrounding cordon become thinner as man crushed closer to
man, and he saw strained faces turned from the player to where the
dogs sat full-throated upon their haunches, with their heads pointed
straight to the stars in the sky.