And as I listened it seemed I watched the age-old struggle between
might and right, the horrors of man's persecution of man, the agonies
of flaming cities, of Death and Shame, of dungeon and torment. I
seemed to hear the thunder of conflicting hosts, the groans of dying
martyrs, to sense all the sweat and blood, the agony and travail of
these long and bitter years wherein man wrought and strove through
tears and tribulation, onward and up to nobler ideals, working out his
own salvation and redemption from his baser self. Suddenly, above this
wild and rushing melody, rose a single dulcet voice, soft yet
patiently insistent, oft repeated with many variations, like some
angel singing a promise of better things to come,--a voice which, as
the wailing tumult died, swelled to a chorus of rejoicing, louder and
louder, resolving back into that majestic hymn-like measure, but
soaring now in joyous triumph, rising, deepening to an ecstasy of
praise.
And then I was staring at the slender, shabby figure who sat, hands on
knees, glancing down into the Tinker's awed face.
"Well, friend Jarvis?" he questioned, with his kindly smile.
"Ah, sir!" cried the Tinker. "Music can surely say more than words
ever will."
"O Peregrine!" sighed Diana under her breath, "has it told you how I
love you--all those things that I can never tell you?" And then she
was away, to seat herself upon the organ-bench beside our host, while
he explained something of the wonders of the noble instrument, its
pedals, stops and triple rank of keys.
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