The three rode down the slope toward the house, but halfway to the bottom they reined in their ponies and listened. Some one was singing. On the thin wintry air a deep mellow voice rose and they distinctly heard the words:
Soft o’er the fountain, ling’ring falls the southern moon,
Far o’er the mountain breaks the day too soon.
In thy dark eyes’ splendor, where the warm light loves to dwell,
Weary looks yet tender, speak their fond farewell.
‘Nita, Juanita! Ask thy soul if we should part,
‘Nita, Juanita! Lean thou on my heart.
It was a wonderful voice that they heard, deep, full, and mellow, all the more wonderful because they heard it there in those lone mountains. The ridges took up the echo, and gave it back in tones softened but exquisitely haunting.
The three paused and looked at one another. They could not see the singer. He was hidden from them by the dips and swells of the valley, but they felt that here was no common man. No common mind, or at least no common heart, could infuse such feeling into music. As they listened the remainder of the pathetic old air rose and swelled through the ridges:
When in thy dreaming, moons like these shall shine again,
And daylight beaming prove thy dreams are vain,
Wilt thou not, relenting, for thy absent lover sigh?
In thy heart consenting to a prayer gone by!
‘Nita, Juanita! Let me linger by thy side!
‘Nita, Juanita! Be thou my own fair bride.
“I’m curious to see that singer,” said Warner. “I heard grand opera once in Boston, just before I started to the war, but I never heard anything that sounds finer than this. Maybe time and place help to the extent of fifty per cent, but, at any rate, the effect is just the same.”
“Come on,” said Dick, “and we’ll soon find our singer, whoever he is.”
The three rode at a rapid pace until they reached the valley. There they drew rein, as they saw near them a tall man, apparently about forty years of age, mending a fence, helped by a boy of heavy build and powerful arms. The man glanced up, saw the blue uniforms worn by the three horsemen, and went peacefully on with his fence-mending. He also continued to sing, throwing his soul into the song, and both work and song proceeded as if no one was near.
He lifted the rails into place with mighty arms, but never ceased to sing. The boy who helped him seemed almost his equal in strength, but he neither sang nor spoke. Yet he smiled most of the time, showing rows of exceedingly strong, white teeth.
“They seem to me to be of rather superior type,” said Dick. “Maybe we can get useful information from them.”
“I judge that the singer will talk about almost everything except what we want to know,” said the shrewd and experienced sergeant, “but we can certainly do no harm by speaking to him. Of course they have seen us. No doubt they saw us before we saw them.”
The three rode forward, saluted politely and the fence-menders, stopping their work, saluted in the same polite fashion. Then they stood expectant.
“We belong to a detachment which is marching southward to join the Union army under General Thomas,” said Dick. “Perhaps you could tell us the best road.”
“I might an’ ag’in I mightn’t, stranger. If you don’t talk much you never have much to take back. If I knew where that army is it would be easy for me to tell you, but if I didn’t know I couldn’t. Now, the question is, do I know or don’t I know? Do you think you can decide it for me stranger?”
It was impossible for Dick or the sergeant to take offense. The man’s gaze was perfectly frank and open and his eyes twinkled as he spoke. The boy with him smiled widely, showing both rows of his powerful white teeth.
“We can’t decide it until we know you better,” said Dick in a light tone.
“I’m willin’ to tell you who I am. My name is Sam Jarvis, an’ this lunkhead here is my nephew, Ike Simmons, the son of my sister, who keeps my house. Now I want to tell you, young stranger, that since this war began and the Yankees and the Johnnies have taken a notion to shoot up one another, people who would never have thought of doin’ it before, have come wanderin’ into these mountains. But you can get a hint about ’em sometimes. Young man, do you want me to tell you your name?”