MR. FRANCIS O'SULLIVAN lounged upon his mule and chirped a foolish song. When his mind was serene, he loved the stately stanzas of the austere Greeks. In moments of anxiety, his tongue, without direction from his brain, warbled of lighter themes. Care bestrode him now, for he sang of love:
Bright was her hair as the Mogul's gold.
And he saw it shine like the sun through rain,
And he could not know that her eyes were cold.
From the Uttermost Snows to the Happy Isles";
And he swore: "By God, I will kiss her hair!"
And he prayed: "Lord, blind me not when she smiles."
Jock Pearson, riding on the little man's right, scowled as though he found the tune distasteful; and Meg Pearson riding just behind him, a long-stemmed black pipe clenched in her teeth, suddenly ripped out a most unladylike oath. Mr. O'Sullivan turned in his saddle and beamed upon the lady.
"What ails you, Meg?" he inquired mildly. "Do you swear at my singing? For my part, I swear by it."
"Your singin' be damned," Meg answered harshly. "They're comin'. I hear their hoof-beats."
