Elsie dreamed she was at the theatre. The opera was "Il Trovatore," and
at the moment when the prison song--that worn yet ever-mournful
cry--should have pulsed forth; but in its stead another strain came
floating from afar, a short phrase equally sad, which sank slowly, as a
fragment of cloud descends from sky to earth to become tears of dew on
the roses. Over and over again it was repeated, so sad, so sweet, so
elemental, it seemed that the pain of all love's vain regret was in it,
longing and sorrow and despair, without relief, without hope, defiant of
death.
Slowly the walls of the theatre faded. The gray light of morning crept
into the dreamer's eyes, and she was aware of the walls of her tent and
knew she had been dreaming. But the sorrowful song went on, with
occasional slight deviations of time and tone, but always the same.
Beginning on a high key, it fell by degrees, hesitating, momentarily
swooping upward, yet ever falling, till at last it melted in with the
solemn moan of the pines stirring above her head. Then she drowsed
again, and seemed to be listening to the wailing song with some one
whose hand she held. As she turned to ask whence the music came a
little shudder seized her, for the eyes looking into hers were not those
of Lawson. Curtis faced her, grave and sweet.
With this shock she wakened, but the song had ceased. She waited in
silence, hoping to hear it again. When fully aroused to her
surroundings, she was convinced that she had dreamed the music as well
as the hand-clasp, and a flush ran over her. "Why should I dream in that
way of _him_?"
She heard the soft lisp of moccasined feet outside the tent, and
immediately after the sound of an axe. Presently the fire began to
crackle, and the rising sun threw a flood of golden light against the
canvas wall. Jennie lifted her arms and yawned, and at last sat up and
listened. Catching Elsie's eye she said: "Good-morning, dear. How did
you sleep?"
"Deliciously--but did you hear some one singing just before sunrise?"
"No--did you?"
"I thought I did; but perhaps I dreamed it."
"Where did it seem to come from?"
"Oh, from away off and high up--the saddest song--a phrase constantly
repeated."
"Oh, I know. It was some young Tetong lover playing the flute. They
often do that when the girls are going for water in the morning. Isn't
it beautiful?"
"I never heard anything so sad."
"All their songs are sad. George says the primitive love-songs of all
races are the same. But Two Horns has the fire going, and I must get up
and superintend breakfast. You need not rise till I call."