“Strange!” said Trove, presently.

“Passing strange, and like a beautiful song,” said Darrel.

“It may be some insane fanatic.”

“Maybe, but he hath the voice of an angel,” said the old man.

They passed a sleepless night and were up early, packing to leave the woods.  Darrel was to go in quest of the boy’s father.  Within a week he felt sure he should be able to find him.

They skirted the pond, crossing a long ridge on its farther shore.  At a spring of cool water in a deep ravine they halted to drink and rest.  Suddenly they heard a sound of men approaching; and when the latter had come near, a voice, deep, vibrant, and musical as a harp-string, in these lines of Hamlet:—­

  “‘Why right; you are i’ the right;
  And so without more circumstance at all,
  I hold it fit that we shake hands and part;
  You as your business and desire shall point you;
  For every man has business and desire
  Such as it is; and for mine own part
  Look you, I’ll go pray.’”

Then said Darrel, loudly:—­

  “‘These are but wild and whirling words, my lord.’”

Two men, a guide in advance, came along the trail—­one, a most impressive figure, tall, erect, and strong; its every move expressing grace and power.

Again the deep music of his voice, saying:—­

  “‘I’m sorry they offend you heartily; yes, faith, heartily.’”

And Darrel rejoined, his own rich tone touching the note of melancholy in the other:—­

  “‘There’s no offence, my lord.’”

“’What Horatio is this?” the stranger inquired, offering his hand.  “A player?”

“Ay, as are all men an’ women,” said Darrel, quickly.  “But I, sor, have only a poor part.  Had I thy lines an’ makeup, I’d win applause.”

The newcomers sat down, the man who had spoken removing his hat.  Curly locks of dark hair, with now a sprinkle of silver in them, fell upon his brows.  He had large brown eyes, a mouth firm and well modelled, a nose slightly aquiline, and wore a small, dark imperial—­a mere tuft under his lip.

“Well, Colonel, you have paid me a graceful compliment,” said he.

“Nay, man, do not mistake me rank,” said Darrel.

“Indeed—­what is it?”

“Friend,” he answered, quickly.  “In good company there’s no higher rank.  But if ye think me unworthy, I’ll be content with ‘Mister.’”

“My friend, forgive me,” said the stranger, approaching Darrel.  “Murder and envy and revenge and all evil are in my part, but no impertinence.”

“I know thy rank, sor.  Thou art a gentleman,” said Darrel.  “I’ve seen thee ‘every inch a king.’”

Darrel spoke to the second period in that passage of Lear, the majesty and despair of the old king in voice and gesture.  The words were afire with feeling as they came off his tongue, and all looked at him with surprise.