The singing took on body and form as the pitch rose.  
"There is a death," repeated David. "Abraham is dead, the oldest and the wisest of my servants. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away. Glory to His name!"
 
Ruth was touched to the heart.
 
"I am sorry," she said simply.
 
"Let us rejoice, rather, for Abraham is happy. His soul is reborn in a young body. Do you not hear them singing? Let us ride on."
 
He kept his head high and a stereotyped¹ smile on his lips as the horses sprang into a gallop²—that breath-taking gallop which made the spirit of the girl leap; but she saw his breast raise once or twice with a sigh. It was the stoicism of an Indian, she felt, and like an Indian's was the bronze-brown skin and the long hair blowing in the wind. The lake was beside them now, and dense³ forest beyond opening into pleasant meadows. She was being carried back into a primitive⁴ time of which the type was the man beside her. Riding without a saddle his body gave to the swing of the gallop, and she was more conscious than ever of physical strength.
 
But now the hoofs⁵ beat softly on the lawn terraces, and in a moment they had stopped before the house where the death had been. She knew at once. The empty arch into the patio⁶ of the servants' house was eloquent⁷, in some manner, of the life that had departed. Before it was the group of singers, all standing⁸ quiet, as though their own music had silenced them, or perhaps preparing to sing again. Connor had described the old servant, but she was not prepared for these straight, withered⁹ bodies, these bony, masklike faces, and the white heads.
 
All in an instant they seemed to see her, and a flash of pleasure went from face to face. They stirred, they came toward her with glad murmurs¹⁰, all except one, the oldest of them all, who remained aloof¹¹ with his arms folded. But the others pressed close around her, talking excitedly to one another, as though she could not understand what they said. And she would never forget one who took her hand in both of his. The touch of his fingers was cold and as dry as parchment. "Honey child, God bless your pretty face."
 
Was this the formal talk of which Connor had warned her? A growl¹² from David drove them back from her like leaves before a wind. He had slipped from his horse, and now walked forward.
 
"It is Abraham?" he asked.
 
"He is dead and glorious," answered the chorus, and the girl trembled to hear those time-dried relics¹³ of humanity speak so cheerily of death.
 
The master was silent for a moment, then: "Did he leave no message for me?"
 
In place of answering the group shifted and opened a passage to the one in the rear, who stood with folded arms.
 
"Elijah, you were with him?"
 
"I heard his last words."
 
"And what dying message for David?"
 
"Death sealed his lips while he had still much to say. To the end he was a man of many words. But first he returned thanks to our Father who breathed life into the clay."
 
"That was a proper thought, and I see that the words were words of Abraham."
 
"He gave thanks for a life of quiet ease and wise masters, and he forgave the Lord the length of years he was kept in this world."
 
"In that," said David gravely, "I seem to hear his voice speaking. Continue."
 
"He commanded us to sing pleasantly when he was gone."
 
"I heard the singing on the lake road. It is well."
 
"Also, he bade us keep the first master in our minds, for John, he said, was the beginning."
 
At this the face of David clouded a little.
 
"Continue. What word for David?"
 
Something that Connor had said about the pride and sulkiness of a child came back to Ruth.
 
Elijah, after hesitation¹⁴, went on: "He declared tha............