The echoes from the hills had not died when a man and a boy, the one bearing a musket, the other an axe, burst from the shadow of the forest, and at a run crossed the greensward and the field of maize between them and the women.

The child let fall her pine cones and pebbles, and fled to her mother, to cling to her skirts, and look with brown, frightened eyes for the wonder that should follow the winding of the horn.

Only twice could she remember that clear summons for her father: once when it was winter and snow was on the ground, and a great wolf, gaunt and bold, had fallen upon their sheep; and once when a drunken trader from Germanna, with a Pamunkey who had tasted of the trader's rum, had not waited for an invitation before entering the cabin.

It was not winter now, and there was no sign of the red-faced trader or of the dreadful, capering Indian.

There was only a sound in the air, a strange noise coming to them from the pass between the hills over which rose the sun.
The man with the musket sent his voice before him as he approached the group upon the doorstep: "Alce, woman! What's amiss?
I see naught wrong!" His wife stepped forward to meet him.