two friends.
When the dusk fell, Bovey made a camp-fire.
"It's what we came for," he said, "and we can't begin too early or
have enough of it, and I feel chilly, queer, quite unlike myself
to-night. It's a depressing country just about here."
"It is," said Clarges, anxious to keep his friend a little longer in
the dark. "We'll be all right when it's really night, you know, and
the fire blazes up. What a jolly tent and what glorious blankets? We
ought to go to bed early, for it was awfully late the last night
There! now its getting better. Hoop-la! more sticks Bovey! Throw
them on, make it blaze up. Here we are in the primeval forest at last,
Bovey, pines and moss, and shadows and sounds--What's that now? Is
that on the river?"
For suddenly they heard the most wonderful strain coming from that
direction. The river was about three or four hundred yards away
across the road, in front of them, and upon a raft slowly passing by
were a couple of _habitans_ singing. What strain was this, so weird,
so solemn, so earnest, yet so pathetic, so sweet, so melodious!
"Descendez a l'ombre
Ma jolie blonde."
Those were the words they caught, no more, but the tune eluded them.
"It's the queerest tune I ever heard!" ejaculated Clarges. He had a
smattering of music, and not a bad ear.
"Can't get it for the life of me. It's like--I tell you what it's
like Bovey, its got the same--you know--the same intervals--that's
the word--that the priests chant in! And then, just when you're
thinking it has, off it goes into something like opera bouffe or
those French rounds our nurse used to sing. But isn't it pretty? I
say--where's Lady Violet now, Bovey, eh? Don't you wish she could
see us, see you there, quite the pioneer, looking like Queen
Elizabeth's giant porter in this queer light? and how she would
catch up that tune and bring it out on the piano, and make ever so
much more of it with her clever fingers, first like a battle-cry,
men marching and marching you know, and then put in a wonderful
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