“And there is something else,” murmured Kut-le, “about ’the silver cord.’”

“’Or ever the silver cord be loosed or the golden bowl be broken or the pitcher be broken at the fountain or the wheel broken at the cistern.  Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was and the spirit to God who gave it.’”

They stood in silence again.  The wailing died into the distance.  The sun touched to molten gold the heavy shadows of the mountain arroyos.  Rhoda was deeply moved by the scene below her.  She felt as if she had been thrust back through the ages to look upon the sorrow of some little Judean town.  The little rocky street, the vivid robes, the weird, dying wail, the broken ornaments and utensils that some folded tired hands would use no more, and, above all, the simple unquestioning faith, roused in her a sudden longing for a life that she never had known.  For a long time she stood in thought.  As darkness fell she roused herself.

“Let me go back to my room,” she said.

As they turned, neither noticed that Rhoda’s little handkerchief, which she had carried through all her experiences, fluttered from her sleeve to the street.

Again it was long before Rhoda slept.  Through her window there floated the sound of song, the evening singing of Indian lads in the village street.  There was a vibrant quality in their voices that Rhoda could liken only to the music of stringed instruments.  There was neither the mellow smoothness of the negro voice nor the flute-like sweetness of the white, yet the voices compassed all the mystical appealing quality of violin notes.

The music woke in Rhoda a longing for she knew not what.  It seemed to her as if she were peering past a misty veil into the childhood of the world to whose simple beauty and delights civilization had made her alien.  The vibrating voices chanted slower and slower.  Rhoda stirred uneasily.  To be free again as these voices were free!  Not to long for the civilization she had left but for open skies and trails!  To be free again!

As the voices melted into silence, a guitar was touched softly under Rhoda’s window and Kut-le’s voice rose in La Golondrina: 

  “Whither so swiftly flies the timid swallow? 
  What distant bourne seeks her untiring wing? 
  To reach her nest what needle does she follow
  When darkness wraps the poor wee storm-tossed thing?”

Rhoda stirred restlessly and threw her arms above her head.

  “To build her nest near to my couch I’ll call her! 
  Why go so far dark and strange skies to seek? 
  Safe would she be, no evil should befall her,
  For I’m an exile sad, too sad to weep!”

Mist-like floated across Rhoda’s mind a memory of the trail with voice of mating bird at dawn, with stars and the night wind and the open way.  And going before, always Kut-le—­Kut-le of the unfathomable eyes, of the merry smile, of the gentle touch.  The music merged itself into Rhoda’s dreams.