CHAPTER LXIV.

“WHAT will you take for him, mistress?  I will give you five pounds for him.”

“No! no!  I won’t take five pounds for my bird!”

“Of course she won’t,” cried another, “she wouldn’t be such a flat.  Here, missus,” cried he, “I’ll give you that for him;” and he extended a brown hand with at least thirty new sovereigns glittering in it.

The woman trembled; she and her husband were just emerging from poverty after a hard fight.  “Oh!” she cried, “it is a shame to tempt a poor woman with so much gold.  We had six brought over, and all died on the way but this one!” and she threw her white apron over her head, not to see the glittering bribe.

“——­ you, put the blunt up and don’t tempt the woman,” was the cry.  Another added:  “Why, you fool, it wouldn’t live a week if you had it,” and they all abused the merchant.  But the woman turned to him kindly and said: 

“You come to me every Sunday, and he shall sing to you.  You will get more pleasure from him so,” said she, sweetly, “than if he was always by you.”

“So I will, old girl,” replied the rough, in a friendly tone.

George stayed till the lark gave up singing altogether, and then he said:  “Now I am off.  I don’t want to hear bad language after that; let us take the lark’s chirp home to bed with us;” and they made off; and true it was the pure strains dwelt upon their spirits, and refreshed and purified these sojourners in a godless place.  Meeting these two figures on Sunday afternoon, armed each with a double-barreled gun and a revolver, you would never have guessed what gentle thoughts possessed them wholly.  They talked less than they did coming, but they felt so quiet and happy.

“The pretty bird,” purred George (seeing him by the ear), “I feel after him—­there—­as if I had just come out o’ church.”

“So do I, George, and I think his song must be a psalm, if we knew all.”

“That it is, for Heaven taught it him.  We must try and keep all this in our hearts when we get among the broken bottles, and foul language, and gold,” says George.  “How sweet it all smells, sweeter than before.”

“That is because it is afternoon.”

“Yes! or along of the music; that tune was a breath from home that makes everything please me.  Now this is the first Sunday that has looked, and smelled, and sounded Sunday.”

“George, it is hard to believe the world is wicked.  Everything seems good, and gentle, and at peace with heaven and earth.”

A jet of smoke issued from the bush, followed by the report of a gun, and Carlo, who had taken advantage of George’s revery to slip on ahead, gave a sharp howl, and spun round upon all fours.

“The scoundrels!” shrieked Robinson.  And in a moment his gun was at his shoulder, and he fired both barrels slap into the spot whence the smoke had issued.