"Eagle Wing roosts high," said a thoughtless youngster.
"The general let them have their way to the last. What's that?" he
added, with sudden stop.
The sleigh had as suddenly been reined in. The driver, an Irish trooper,
crossed himself, for, on the hush of the breathless winter night, there
rose and fell--shrill, quavering, now high, now low, in mournful minor,
a weird, desolate, despairing chant, the voice of a heart-broken woman,
and one and all they knew at once it was Nanette, after the manner of
her mother's people, alone on the lofty height, alone in the wintry
wilderness, sobbing out her grief song to the sleeping winds, mourning
to the last her lost, her passionately loved brave.
Then, all on a sudden, it ceased. A black form started from under the
scaffolding to the edge of the bluff. Then again, weird, wild, uncanny,
a barbaric, almost savage strain burst from the lips of the girl.
"Mother of Heavin!" cried the driver. "Can no one shtop that awful keen.
It's her death song she's singin'!"
Two young officers sprang from the sleigh, but at the instant another
cry arose. Another form, this one of horse and rider, appeared at the
crest, silhouetted with the girl's against the stars.
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