e hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudes
fills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. Why should I
attempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, which
every plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand?
What wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears the
rustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have lost
their way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whose
feet are bruised on the shadow trail? What wonder the gauzy northern
lights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lighting
those who ride the plains of heaven? Indeed, I defy a white man with all
the discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings of
mystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie.
There is, I affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. If they have
watches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sun
himself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. So I confess I
have no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to her
home and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed the
threshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it was
impossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust his
head in.
"Mind y'rselves," he called. "I hear men coming frae the river, a pretty
hour, indeed, for visitin'. Frances, go ben and see yon back window's
open!"
"The soldiers from the fort," cried Frances with a little gasp.
"Don't move," said I. "They can't see me here. It's dark. I want to hear
what they say and the window is open. Indeed, Frances, I'm an expert at
window-jumping," and I had begun to tell her of my scrape with Louis'
drunken comrades in Fort Douglas, when I heard Mr. Sutherland's grating
tones according the newcomers a curious welcome. "Ye swearin',
blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorway
this night. Y'r French gab may be foul wi' oaths for all I ken; but
ye'll no come into my hoose! An' you, Sir, a blind leader o' the blind,
a disciple o' Beelzebub, wi' y'r Babylonish idolatries, wi' y'r incense
that fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images and
mummery and crossin' o' y'rsel', wi' y'r pagan, popish practises, wi'
y'r skirts and petticoats, I'll no hae ye on my premises, no, not an' ye
leave y'r religion outside! An' you, Meester Hamilton, a respectable
Protestant, I'm
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