“Oh, I don’t care about it particularly,” shamelessly answered Broussard, who was an inveterate smoker.

“When we got out of tobacco in the jungle I kept the men quiet by singing the old song ‘’Twas Off the Blue Canaries I Smoked My Last Cigar.’”

“Music has always had a soothing influence over me,” said Colonel Fortescue, after a moment.  “Suppose you sing that song.  It may help this infernal ankle of mine.”

Broussard obeyed orders immediately, and the old song was sung with all the feeling that Broussard could infuse into his fine, rich voice.  When it was over, the Colonel said sternly: 

“Sing another song.  Keep on singing until I tell you to quit.”

Broussard, being a sly dog, did not sing any of the modern songs that he was wont to troll out at the club, or on the march, but chose for his second number a song that subalterns sang to pianos, to banjos and guitars, and even without accompaniment, the favorite song of the subaltern, “A Warrior Bold.”  Broussard’s clear baritone, sweet and ringing, echoed among the icy cliffs in the wintry dusk.  At the end, Colonel Fortescue nodded his head in approval.

“I used to sing that song,” he said, “when I was a youngster, but I never had a fine voice like yours.  Tune up again.”

Broussard tuned up again, and this time it was a sweet old sentimental ballad.  He went conscientiously through his repertory of old-fashioned ballads, not smiling in the least, Colonel Fortescue listening gravely to these songs of love.  The purple twilight was coming on fast and the ruddy glare of the fire threw a beautiful crimson light upon the snow-draped cliffs and ice-clad trees.  During the intervals between the songs, the two men listened for the sound of coming help.  With a good fire, plenty of cigars, and Broussard’s cheerful singing, their plight was not so bad.  But a disturbing thought came to both of them.

“The horse running back riderless, will alarm my wife and daughter,” said Colonel Fortescue after a while.

Broussard made no reply; he hoped that Anita would be a little frightened about him.

CHAPTER IX

THE REVEILLE

Half an hour after Colonel Fortescue and Broussard rode away, Anita, walking into her mother’s room, said to Mrs. Fortescue: 

“Mother, let us ride this afternoon.  It is so gloriously clear and cold.”

Mrs. Fortescue turned from the desk where she was writing and hesitated.

“I saw your father go off on Gamechick.  You can ride Pretty Maid, but your father objects so much to my riding Birdseye.”

“But there are plenty of mounts besides Birdseye,” said Anita.

Mrs. Fortescue glanced out of the window at the winter landscape and shivered a little.

“It is very cold,” she said, “and rather late; the sun will be gone in a little while.”