of books and papers from England. Most of them were still in the Fort.
The association of this man with these things fretted him.

The Tall Master swung his bow upward, but at that instant there came a
knock, and, in response to a call, Wind Driver and Wine Face entered.
Wine Face was certainly a beautiful girl; and Lazenby might well have
been pardoned for throwing in his fate with such a heathen, if he
despaired of ever seeing England again. The Tall Master did not turn
towards these. The Indians sat gracefully on a bearskin before the fire.
The eyes of the girl were cast shyly upon the Man as he stood there
unlike an ordinary man; in his face a fine hardness and the cold light of
the North. He suddenly tipped his bow upward and brought it down with a
most delicate crash upon the strings. Then softly, slowly, he passed
into a weird fantasy. The Indians sat breathless. Upon them it acted
more impressively than the others: besides, the player's eye was
searching them now; he was playing into their very bodies. And they
responded with some swift shocks of recognition crossing their faces.
Suddenly the old Indian sprang up. He thrust his arms out, and made, as
if unconsciously, some fantastic yet solemn motions. The player smiled
in a far-off fashion, and presently ran the bow upon the strings in an
exquisite cry; and then a beautiful avalanche of sound slid from a
distance, growing nearer and nearer, till it swept through the room, and
imbedded all in its sweetness.

At this the old Indian threw himself forward at the player's feet. "It
is the song of the White Weaver, the maker of the world--the music from
the Hills of the Mighty Men. . . . I knew it--I knew it--but never
like that. . . . It was lost to the world; the wild cry of the lofty
stars. . . ." His face was wet.