His walk had
an air of impatience; he seemed disturbed of mind and restless of body.
He gave an impression of great force. He would have been picked out of a
multitude, not alone because of his remarkable height, but because he had
an air of command and the aloofness which shows a man sufficient unto
himself.
As he stood gazing reflectively into the sunset, a strange, plaintive,
birdlike note pierced the still evening air. His head lifted quickly, yet
he did not look in the direction of the sound, which came from the woods
behind the house. He did not stir, and his eyes half-closed, as though he
hesitated what to do. The call was not that of a bird familiar to the
Western world. It had a melancholy softness like that of the bell-bird of
the Australian bush. Yet, in the insistence of the note, it was, too, a
challenge or a summons.
Three times during the past week he had heard it--once as he went by the
market-place of Manitou; once as he returned in the dusk from Tekewani's
Reservation, and once at dawn from the woods behind the house. His
present restlessness and suppressed agitation had been the result.
It was a call he knew well. It was like a voice from a dead world. It
asked, he knew, for an answering call, yet he had not given it.
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