VI
DEVIL'S DITTIES
Theday following the widow-man's disastrous visit to the women on the hill, Aunt Ailsie came in, as she had planned, to get her first taste of learning. She had also planned, of course, to bring Jeems in and engineer his courting; and her disappointment was keen as she rode along on old Darb, meditating pensively upon the tragedy of the day before.
"They throwed away as good a chanct as ary old maid could look to have, and all because not a single one of 'em was able to milk a cow. I'm clean out of heart, and hain't aiming to trouble my mind to hunt up nary 'nother husband for 'em. Hit wouldn't be no use if I did, there not being a living man in this country would marry a woman that can't milk. May be that's the reason they hain't kotched 'em a man down in the level land."
Before Aunt Ailsie reached the tents on the hill, she saw her "pieded" heifer picking around up near the timber line, and sighed deeply.
"Pore creetur, I'd never a-lent you to 'em if I had knowed; hit'll be your ruination having that air little Billy Lee feisting round you."
When she reached the tents, the cooking class was over, as was also the sewing lesson, and thesinging was just beginning in the largest tent, where even more young folks than usual were gathered.
Amy was playing the baby organ, but Virginia, who stood near her, straightening up the book-shelves, saw Aunt Ailsie and beckoned for her. As she approached the two, she sighed deeply again.
"Pore gals, they don't know what they missed yesterday; they don't know how nigh they come to being tuck off the cull-list!"
Her attention was immediately drawn from them to the newcomer of whom Fult had spoken the day before—a lovely young girl who led the singing, and sang as spontaneously and joyously as a mocking-bird, and whose example was contagious, for the more timid young people, who had sung haltingly before, now poured their whole souls into the delight of it. Fult's voice was the best among the young men, and blended well with that of the new singer.
Aunt Ailsie sat down on a bench and listened, somewhat critically, for half an hour. "Fulty was right," she said to herself then, "she can outsing me when I was a young gal. But I misdoubt if she knows as many song-ballats as I knowed."
There was so much enthusiasm that the usual half-hour of singing lengthened into an hour, and was ended only by the ringing of the dinner-bell below.
"We're so glad you came," said Amy, as the two started down the hill; "we want to tell you how very grateful we are for the cow."
"Yes," said Virginia, joining them; "nothing could be a greater blessing to us."
"I heared not nary one of you was able to milk her," said Aunt Ailsie; and she could not keep all reproach out of her voice.
"No, but Billy Lee can, and we've hired him to do it regularly, and the milk is delicious, and we've bought us a churn this morning."
"She's a right cow," said Aunt Ailsie; "but"—solemnly—"hit takes a woman-person to get the best out of a cow." She sighed deeply. "But, women, that's neither here nor yander now; what I come for to-day was to tell you my man has give his consent for me to get larning—enough, anyhow, to read Scripter, though no more."
"Oh, we're so glad for you—you must have your first lesson right after dinner."
"That's what I aim to; 'pears like I can't hardly wait to begin."
Just then Fult came up behind and laid a detaining hand on Aunt Ailsie's arm. "Stop a minute, granny—here's somebody craves to meet you."
Aunt Ailsie fell back behind the others. "Oh, the singing gal!" she exclaimed, looking for a longminute into Isabel's face, then turning her around for a rear view, and summing up the inventory with "Now, hain't she pretty as a poppet!"
Fult's eyes expressed concurrence.
"What's your name, daughtie?"
"Isabel Gwynne."
"How old air you?"
"Twenty."
"You don't look hit. You hain't got ary man yet, I allow?"
"No."
"Well, praise the Lord there's one amongst the quare women hain't a old maid! You got a whole year to go on yet, and, judging by your looks, you'll likely land a man before hit's over. I heared you sing this morning, and hit was fine. I follered singing myself when I were young."
"Yes, Mr. Fallon told me about it; he said you used to be able to sing ballads the night through, and never repeat yourself."
"Eh law, yes."
"And that you taught him those he knows. He has sung two or three for me, and I'm crazy about them, and can hardly wait to hear more. I hoped maybe you might sing for me this afternoon."
Aunt Ailsie drew back, with a frightened expression. "My fathers!" she said; "hit would be as much as my life is worth to sing song-ballats in public this way; my man can't abide 'em sence hej'ined; he allows they are devil's ditties, and won't have one raised under his roof."
"But this isn't his roof," laughed Isabel, glancing up at the sky.
"Eh law, when Lot says roof, he means anybody belongs under his roof. If I was to sing on this here hill, the news would travel over the county in less time than hit takes to tell hit, and Lot would be everly scandalized amongst the Old Primitives, and the sky would nigh fall. Now, though I hain't the songster I used to be, Ifeelto sing for you. I love hit better'n life, seems like. But a woman don't dairst to fly right pine-blank in the face of Scripter and disobey her husband!"
"No, I suppose not," admitted Isabel; "but how did you teach Mr. Fallon?"
Aunt Ailsie leaned forward and spoke in Isabel's ear. "I done hit unbeknownst!" she said: "I tuck Fulty up on top the ridge, and a leetle yan side, where no human couldn't hear, and my man couldn't noway be scandalized!"
"Well, why not take me up sometime, too?"
Aunt Ailsie gazed at the singing gal with dilating eyes. "I'll do hit, I shorely will," she declared. Then she continued, in a conspirator's voice: "We'll have to bide our time till Lot goes to a far funeral occasion, and can't get back afore night. Funeral meetings is setting in, now the crap's laid by; I heared Lot say several was denounceda-Sunday at a nigh one he went to. He'd ruther die as to miss one,—funeral meetings is his delight, same as song-ballats is mine,—and I'll listen round and find out when a far one is aiming to be, and get the word to Fulty, and Fulty can fetch you down to take the day, and then we'll have a singing time, up on the ridge."
Fult and Isabel entered joyfully into the conspiracy, and then all three went down, Isabel and Aunt Ailsie to the women's dinner-table, Fult to the hotel below.
After dinner, Aunt Ailsie received from Amy a brand-new primer, with her name written large on the front page, and thereupon attacked the alphabet with trembling enthusiasm, and the remark, "I feel like I'm jest starting in to live."
Soon afterward, several other old people came up the hill with their primers, and Amy heard them all recite the alphabet, and spell a number of words. Uncle Ephraim could even read a few sentences—evidently he was giving all his time and strength to the acquisition of knowledge.
He congratulated Aunt Ailsie on her start. "Hit's the best day's work you ever done," he said; "I wouldn't take the riches of the world for what I have larned these two weeks."
Later, Aunt Ailsie went up to see the play-games of the young folks on the spur. In the largest ring she saw Fult leading the song and play, withIsabel as his partner. Lethie, who had led with him hitherto, sat near by on a log, with little Madison, her baby brother, in her lap. Aunt Ailsie dropped down beside her.
"How's all the young-uns, Lethie?" she inquired.
"Oh, fine," replied Lethie; "that nurse woman, she cyored up the rash little Maddy was broke out with so bad; and t'others is seeing the time of their lives a-larning and playing on the hill, and don't never give me ary grain of trouble."
"Why hain't you playing yourself to-day?"
"I just didn't feel like hit."
"But that hain't right, Lethie; you air young, and ought to take your pleasure. Hit hain't right for a young gal to get old afore her time."
Lethie's under lip trembled a little. "Aunt Ailsie," she said, "the reason I hain't a-playing is, my clothes looks so quare."
She looked down at her dark, heavy linsey skirt, coarse little shoes, and ill-fitting pink-calico waist.
"What's the matter with 'em?" inquired Aunt Ailsie.
"I don't know; I allowed they was all right till yesterday. But sence Miss Isabel come in, they look so quare, and I hain't aiming to shame Fulty by playing with him. He axed me, but I wouldn't."
Aunt Ailsie scrutinized Isabel's simple white linen dress.
"Why, she hain't dressed no finer than you," she said.
"No, but she's different—her clothes sets so good on her. I think she's the prettiest woman ever I seed."
Aunt Ailsie looked at the lovely, wistful little face turned up to hers—the skin of milky whiteness, the big, heavily lashed gray eyes, the brave little mouth, the mass of pale golden hair drawn tightly back from forehead and temples, and twisted in a hard knot at the back.
"I don't see as she's any ahead of you on looks," she decided.
"Oh, I never did have nolooks," said Lethie, deprecatingly; "but," earnestly, "I wisht I did have some clothes!"
"Pore child, you hain't got ary grain of chance to be young and gayly, like you ought, with your maw dead and gone, and your paw's house and all that mess of young-uns on your hands. Hit's a pure shame for a young gal to be burdened down that way."
"Oh, no, Aunt Ailsie," cried Lethie, in warm protest; "hit is my heart's delight to do for the young-uns sence maw died; I love them so good, and they love me so good, and little Maddy here is the sweetest babe ever was borned, and I can't stand to have him out of my sight."
Aunt Ailsie shook her head. "Hit hain't right,"she insisted; "your paw ought to get him a good woman, that would treat the young-uns kind, and give you a chance to be young and happy."
"But I'm happy now," declared Lethie; "seems like I hain't had nothing but happiness sence these women come in—just all manner of good times. And paw says I am larning to cook so fine; and Charlie hain't been drunk nary time sence the Fourth of July, and Fulty behaving so civil—why, hit seems very near like heaven, and I just love all them women to death for coming, and this here new one most of all, because she's the smilingest and prettiest."
"You're a mighty good little gal; the Lord'll bless you for hit!"
Here the game broke up, and Fult came over to get Lethie for the next one.
"You go right on now, and don't be so back'ard," insisted Aunt Ailsie. "I'll tend the least one for you."
At her urging, Lethie went. But Isabel was playing just opposite, with Charlie as her partner; and every minute Lethie realized how much longer her own skirt was in the back than in the front, how clumsy her shoes were, how much too big and baggy her waist, and before long she said to Fult: "I hain't feeling good; you'll have to get you another pardner,"—and slipped out of the ring, shortly afterward going down the hill, with little Madison in arms, as Aunt Ailsie went.
Next morning, when Fult came across the street as usual to take her to the women's Sunday School, Lethie made an excuse not to go; and, after starting off all the children but little Madison, she went downstairs into her father's store and hunted among the shelves for some white goods like Isabel's dress. But, though there were several bolts of calicoes and ginghams, there was nothing in the way of white stuff save a piece of "bleached factory" (white domestic). From this she cut enough for a dress for herself and one for little Madison; then, hastening back upstairs, went to work with awkward little hands to try to cut and fit them, attempting to make her own as much like Isabel's as possible.
Every morning of the week following she went up the hill with Charlotta and Ruby Fallon, to the cooking classes, her little brother always on her arm; but she did not go to the play-parties in the afternoons, keeping this precious time and privacy for work on her white dress and Madison's. Saturday she finished both, the result, so far as her own was concerned, being pathetic; and Sunday she dressed herself and the baby in them, and waited for Fult to come for her again.
Instead, however, she was a little shocked to see him riding down Troublesome, with Isabel on a nag beside him.
She did not feel at all hurt or angry—in hereyes Fult was perfect; what he did must be all right. Gulping down a few tears, she hugged and kissed little Madison, took off her finery and his, and went to work doing some extra cooking for dinner.
Fult and Isabel were riding down to Aunt Ailsie's to hear the devil's ditties, Uncle Lot having gone to a funeral meeting fourteen miles away. It was the first time they had been alone together since the day Fult had brought Isabel in behind him. Meanwhile, she had heard fully about the "war" and Fult's part in it, had seen him play in the same game with his archenemy, Darcy Kent, had watched both impassive faces with fascinated eyes, and had developed a consuming curiosity to know just how feudists feel on the inside.
They had ridden only a short distance past the village when Isabel said, suddenly: "Why didn't you tell me that day you brought me in that you were one of the leaders of the 'war'?"
Fult started, flushed slightly, and replied: "I allowed you'd hear hit soon enough anyhow."
"But you knew how excited I was to hear from Uncle Adam that there was a feud right here on Troublesome. Of course, I had heard and read of them all my life,—my father had always taken a special interest in them—but to walk right into one as I did seemed too wonderful for words."
"But you walked into perfect peace," smiled Fult.
"Oh, yes, I know—the truce," said Isabel. "But that's just a temporary thing, isn't it? Just for the summer?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
Fult paused a moment before answering, deliberately: "I allow one or t'other of us will have to die before there's any lasting peace."
"Oh, why?" exclaimed Isabel; "why keep up the enmity and hatred? Why not let it die out forever?"
Fult was gazing straight ahead with drawn brows at a spot in the road.
"It hain't possible," he said, in a low voice. "But I can't talk about hit—never could, not even to my best friend, Charlie Lee. The onliest way is for me to keep hit all pinned right down inside me."
Suddenly he put out a hand, seized Isabel's bridle, and turned both the nags sharply aside into the creek.
"Right there, in the road," he said, in a choked voice, "is where they kilt my paw—come on him unexpected from them spruce-pines. I allus turn out of the road here."
"Oh, horrible!" exclaimed Isabel. "Oh, what you must have suffered! Can you forgive me for speaking lightly as I did about the war? For speaking of it at all? I can hardly forgive myself!"
Her blue eyes gazed insistently into his dark ones.
He was silent a moment. Then he said, gently: "Hit's all right." Then, in a still lower, deeper voice: "If there was anybody I could talk to about hit, hit would be you."
The color sprang into Isabel's face as she replied: "Oh, I'm only a stranger; I couldn't expect you to."
Ten minutes later, he said: "All the land this side of Troublesome, for a mile or more, was my paw's, and my part, four or five hundred acres, lays along here, from the creek to the top of the ridge. My house, hit's just out of sight up yander. Me and Charlie and t'other boys stays down here a lot in crap time, and this summer they aim to help me get out a lot of timber—yellow poplar. See them tall trees that lifts their heads so high above t'others, along the ridge and all down the sides? There's a sight of 'em. And them hills are full of coal, too, five or six veins of hit."
When they arrived at Aunt Ailsie's, Isabel was much taken with the ancient log house—the great fireplace, with its pots, spiders, and kettles; the loom, the reel, and the spinning-wheels and "kivers." But Aunt Ailsie would not let her spend much time looking. She set them down to a half-past-ten o'clock dinner, in order, as she said, that they might have a "full evening" before them. By eleven-thirty the three were starting up the mountain in the rear of the house.
Cornfields extended halfway up, and were so steep and crumbly that Isabel had to be pulled up much of the way by Fult. He and Aunt Ailsie took the ascent like goats, but had to stop frequently for Isabel to recover her breath.
Up in the timber, it was equally steep, but there were bushes and limbs to hang on to, and also the ground was solid beneath their feet. At last, after many rests, they reached the high rocks, a hard formation giving a castellated appearance to this ridge and others that billowed away in the distance. Through a cleft in the rocks, Fult led the way, and, emerging on the far side, they found themselves under an overhanging shelf,—a "rock-house," Aunt Ailsie called it,—which was dry and comfortable, with some flat stones to sit on, and from which there was a glorious view.
Aunt Ailsie was pretty nervous. "Get out on top and take a far look around afore I begin," she said to Fult.
When he returned, she removed her black sunbonnet, laid it on her lap, and inquired: "What'll I start with?"
"I already sung 'Turkish Lady' and 'Barbary Allen' and one or two more for her," he said. "The older they are, the better she likes them—them old way-back ones that come over from old England and Scotland long time ago."
"Yes," said Isabel, with enthusiasm; "think offinding one eight hundred years old, like 'Turkish Lady'!"
"Well, I'll sing you them my old granny teached me," said Aunt Ailsie. "I ricollect one has your name in hit; 'Lady Isabel and the Elf Knight' is hits name."
She began in a high-pitched voice, to a weird minor tune:—
"Lady Isabel sets in her bower a-sewing,All as the gowans grow gay,Then she hears an Elf Knight his horn a-blowing,The first morning in May."
Enchanted by the magic strains, Lady Isabel makes a wish that she might possess both the horn and its blower. Whereupon the Elf Knight leaps into her window, seizes her, and takes her on his horse far away into the deep greenwood, only to inform her on arriving there that he has already slain seven king's daughters on that spot, and that she shall be the eighth.
She pleads for a moment of happiness first, begging him to sit down and rest his head on her knee for a little while before she dies. He does so; she strokes his head, weaves a spell over him, and lulls him to sleep; then binds him with his sword-belt and plunges a "dag-dirk" into his heart, bidding him lie there and be a husband to the seven slain women.
The next ballad was a many-stanzaed one, "Lord Thomas and Fair Ellender":—
"'O mother, O mother, come riddle my sport,Come riddle it all as one,Must I go marry Fair Ellender,Or bring the Brown Girl home?'"'The Brown Girl she has houses and lands,Fair Ellender she has none;I charge you on my blessing, Lord Thomas,Go bring the Brown Girl home.'"'Go saddle up my milk-white steed,Go saddle him up for me;I'll go and invite Fair EllenderMy wedding for to see.'"He rode, he rode, till he came to the Hall;He tingled all on the ring;Nobody so ready as Fair Ellender herselfTo rise and bid him come in."'What news, what news?' Fair Ellender cried;'What news have you fetched to me?''I've come to invite thee to my wedding;Is that good news for thee?'"'Bad news, bad news,' Fair Ellender cried,'Bad news have you fetched to me;I once did think I would be your bride,And you my bridegroom would be.'"'O mother, O mother, come riddle my sport,Come riddle it all as one;Must I go to Lord Thomas's wedding,Or tarry with thee at home?'"'Oh, enemies, enemies, you have there;The Brown Girl she has none;I charge you on my blessing, fair daughter,To tarry this day at home.'"'There may be few of my friends, mother,And many more of my foes;But if I never return again,To Lord Thomas's wedding I'll go.'"She dressed herself in scarlet-red,Her maidens she dressed in green,And every town that she rode throughThey took her to be some queen."She rode, she rode, till she came to the Hall;She tingled all on the ring;Nobody so ready as Lord Thomas himselfTo rise and bid her come in."He took her by the lily-white hand,He led her through the hall,And set her down in a golden chair,Among the ladies all."'Is this your bride,' Fair Ellender cried,'That looks so wonderful brown?You once could have married as fair a ladieAs ever the sun shone on!'"'Despise her not, Fair Ellen,' he cried,'Despise her not to me;I'd rather have your little fingerThan her whole bodye.'"The Brown Girl had a little pen-knife,It was both keen and sharp;Between the long ribs and the short,She pierced Fair Ellender's heart."'Oh, what is the matter?' Lord Thomas, he cried.'Oh, are you blind?' said she,'And don't you see my own heart's bloodCome trinkling down my knee?'"He seized the Brown Girl by the hand,And dragged her across the hall;He took a bright sword and cut off her headAnd flung it again' the wall."'O mother, O mother, go dig my grave,Go dig hit both wide and deep,And lay Fair Ellender in my arms,And the Brown Girl at my feet.'"He placed the butt again' the wall,The p'int again' his heart.Did you ever see three true-lovers meetThat had so soon to part?"
Then followed many another ancient ballad, passed down through the centuries by word of mouth in England and Scotland; brought across the seas, to be cherished in the rough pioneer days as reminders of the old home; and, later, forgotten in the stress of American life by the more fortunately placed, to become to the mountaineer, in his isolation,the sole outlet for imagination and fancy, the chief source of inspiration and ideals.
The tunes themselves were invariably minor, and weird beyond credence, harking back, most of them, to a time before the development of the present musical scale, when the primitive one then in use possessed only five notes.
All afternoon Isabel sat spellbound, listening to one long-buried tragedy after another, living back into the lives of her remote ancestors, when feeling was less restrained, love more ardent, hate and vengeance more swift and sure; when, also, the world was inhabited by more picturesque beings—lords, ladies, kings and queens.
Often Isabel had sighed for the days of romance and chivalry; believed she had been born out of time into a world prosaic, spiritless, commercial-minded; felt an impatience with the men she knew—Thomas Vance, for instance, who could be content to spend nine or ten hours of every day in his cashier's cage at the bank. She knew now that the old world of the ballads was the one to which she truly belonged.
Many times during the afternoon she glanced at Fult's face, impassive always, save for the smouldering eyes. Only once, when news of the cruel killing of a Douglas is brought to his castle, and his "baby son, on the nourice's knee," miraculously speaks up: "Gin I live to be a man, revengedI'll be," did she see a spasm of feeling pass over it.
Frequently, between ballads, Aunt Ailsie opened her closed eyes and sent Fult to the top of the rocks. During one of his absences on sentinel duty in the late afternoon, she surprised Isabel by saying: "But there's jest as good song-ballats made nowadays as there was in them old ancient times."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, there's men that follers making song-ballats about things that happens now, and does naught but set in chimley-corners and sing 'em, and nobody is welcomer wherever they go. There's two blind Beverly boys—but they hain't boys now no longer—that never did nothing else. They are kindly kin to the Fallons. I'll sing you some of theirn some day, about the wars in this country. After Fulty kilt Rafe Kent and was sont down to Frankfort, they made up one about the Fallon-Kent war and him."
Isabel was thrilled. "I must hear it," she said.
"I'd never dairst to sing hit in his hearing," replied Aunt Ailsie; "the onliest chanct would be to get him away a while."
"Oh, please do!" entreated Isabel, as Fult stepped back into the rock-house.
After another old ballad, Aunt Ailsie said:—
"Fulty, your grandpaw's been ailing a right smart with the rheumatiz in his j'ints, like youknow, and I been a-wishing for some yaller-root to bile down for him. In the days when we follered digging sang through these hills, there was a sight of hit growed on this here mountain—beyand that next spur was a good place. There's time a-plenty yet,—Lot he won't never get back afore dark,—and if you feel to, you might go down and dig a few roots."
Fult rose with alacrity. "I will," he said, "if Miss Isabel will go with me."
He turned his handsome eyes upon her.
"She hain't hardly equal to sech a ja'nt yet a while. You go down-along by yourself, and me'n' her'll set and wait for you."
"Oh, come," pleaded Fult, insistently, with both voice and eyes.
"I suppose your grandmother is right—I had better not attempt too much climbing the first day," smiled Isabel.
Very reluctantly, Fult departed; and when he was at a safe distance, Aunt Ailsie began, in a low voice, the "Ballad of the Fallon-Kent War":—
"Come all young men and maidens fairAnd hear a tale of trouble.Take warning, boys, shun packing guns,And likewise liquor's bubble."Red Rafe and Fighting Fult, when young,Both follered driving cattleDown to the level land; a wordDid plunge them into battle."Both being drunk, a brindle steerHit sarved as cause for quarrel;The lie was give, then weepons drawed,Then two smoking gun-bar'ls."Both being wounded bad, hate keptA-working like slow pizen:Each vowed that t'other he would killThe minute he laid eyes on."Fult's friends was quick to take his part,The Kent clan strong did rally,And War hit fell on TroublesomeLike a land-slip down a valley."O Lord, I hate to tell the taleOf all the woes that followed.Twenty-five year in troubles soreThe county hit was swallowed."For both was men of high degree,With office in the county;Fult to the Jail-house held the key,Rafe drawed the Sheriff's bounty."And more and more, as years went by,Outsiders in hit mingled;And worse and worse, each day, the warWith politics got tangled."See at the Forks the two sides meet,At Christmas or Election.The nags they plunge, the bullets whiz,The guns they bark destruction."Beneath the beds the women-folksAnd babes they go a-diving,And all the folks that follers peaceIn corners dark are hiving."Oh, hear the wounded yell, and seeThe nags in franzy trompingAll on the dying men beneath,Their foamy bits a-chomping."And now the battle's over, seeThe dead lay cold and torn there,And hear the women's shrieks and prayersUpon the breezes borne there."Again, Rafe's crew besiege the Jail,With many a shot and shell, sir;Fult and his fighting men within,They shorely give 'em hell, sir."Or maybe in the courthouse, whenThe proof one side again' goes,The war busts forth, and jury, judge,And lawyers seek the windows."The years pass on, but not the hate;Death keeps his toll a-taking;Rafe's brothers two, and brothers' sonsAnd many more in-raking."And Fult his kin and friends sees dieFor him, but still he lingers,A rifle ever on his arm,Three pistols nigh his fingers."They cannot whip him in fair fray,So strategy they hatch up.Rafe feigns to go a journey far,A bad man for to catch up."Him and his men ride off by day,But back by night they crawl, oh,And hide away by the main road,All in a spruce-pine hollow."Fult, breathing free at last, rides out,His thoughts removed from danger;Both mind and body take the restTo which they are a stranger."He listens at the little birdsThat sing the fair day's dawning.O Fult, you better look around—The grave for you is yawning!"Too late, too late; unseen they dashUpon him from the hollow;A flash, a cry, and Fighting FultAll in his gores doth wallow."The jury never dairst to bringAgain' Red Rafe a sentence;On 'self-defense' he triumphed through,Nor felt the first repentance."But where's Young Fult? By day and nightHe's practising on gun-play,And on his eighteenth birth, he ridesTo meet Rafe, on a Sunday."He takes his life all in his hand;He cares not for the danger,All set upon the holy taskTo be his paw's revenger."There in the open road they met,All honest, fair and just, oh;But Heaven aimed the bullet swiftThat laid Rafe in the dust low."O Fulty, you've revenged your paw,You've done your utmost duty;No man can curl the lip of scornAt you, in your young beauty."I know hit's hard on you to layAnd pine in Frankfort prison;I'd ruther be there, though, admired,Than safe home, in derision."The hearts of all is turnt to youIn love and fond affection;And here we sing this ballad trueTo keep you in recollection."
When, a moment later, Fult, alert, graceful, perfect in physical beauty, came in sight, moving rapidly up through the thick timber below, Isabel felt as if, in his person, Romance itself, beloved of the ages, wept, honored, and sung, was advancing swiftly toward her from out the veils and shadows of bygone centuries.