He saw in vision the blue tops of those delectable hills where the myrtle and the cassia grew; he felt within his limbs the ardent impulse of the hart or roe.

He stood with his head bent, listening, until the music ceased; the blue hills sank suddenly into the land of the past, and all the spice-plants withered away.
There was but a few minutes' interval; then there was a chorus-- "Strike the Timbrel." Burr Gordon, listening, heard in that only the great soprano, and it was to him like the voice of Miriam of old, summoning him to battle and glory.
But when that music ceased he did not wait any longer nor enter the house, but stole away silently.

This time he travelled the main road, which intersected the old one at the Hautville house.

The village lights shone before him all the way.

He was half-way to the village when he met his cousin, Lot Gordon.