“Jacob hed powerful strange ’speriences,” he broke out. “He did dream s’prisin’. An’ the Lord’s voice mus’ hev sounded in his ears, wakin’ an’ sleepin’, arter he once hearn it. I couldn’t holp feelin’ sorry fur Esau, though.” He mechanically noted how the golden-rod showered its yellow hoard, as his stirrup-irons struck into the thick wayside growth, how the blooming “mountain snow” brushed his mare’s fine coat. “It never did ’pear ter me so scandalous redic’lous ez Esau war hongry arter he kem from huntin’. This air a powerful rough kentry, an’ the air is brief,—I fund the diff’ence out whenst I went down yander ter them valley towns, time Jake Baintree war tried. The Bible ’lowed Esau war a powerful cunning hunter, but never said nuthin’ ’bout what sorter dogs he hed,—moughtn’t hev been trained to trail, an’ time he hed pulled ’bout’n the mountings with a pack o’ wuthless hounds arter deer or b’ar he war ’bleeged ter been hongry; but he oughtn’t ter hev sold his birthright fur a pot o’ soup.” He shook his head reprehensively over this ancient transaction. “Esau oughtn’t ter hev done that,” he said, as if it had happened yesterday. The mare suddenly shied from a pallid, lightning-scathed tree showing abruptly close at hand as the path curved. He paused for a moment, but the interruption did not divert the current of his reflections. “Jacob,” he said, “served seven year fur Rachel, an’ ’lowed ’twar like one day. He b’lieved in Rachel. The Bible ’lows she war plumb beautiful,—but I’ll be bound she warn’t nowhar compared ter Marcelly”—He broke off with a bitter sigh; his face clouded; the far-away look in his blue eyes, that was so inconsonant with the force and boldness of his features, was gone with the effect of a sudden metamorphosis,—absolutely unrecognizable. He gathered up the reins that he had suffered to lie loose on the mare’s neck, and lifted his voice in a melancholy hymn, and sang aloud as he rode. Now and again the tones rose to Jake Baintree’s ears, and once as Jepson emerged below the wealth of foliage into a rocky space he saw him and his flock and herd again; the animals running at speed down the declivities, the mare cantering after, while the rider sang aloud, the sound vibrating back and forth in swinging vigor of rhythm, and with the multitudinous echoes seeming as if the whole morning were voicing the solemn measure of an anthem. Baintree, as he leaned on his spade, his hat pulled low over his uncertain and lowering eyes, had an expression altogether at variance with his humble rustic garb, so crafty, so keen, it was. His face was lined with anxiety for a moment. Once he started impulsively after the horseman, then checked himself abruptly, “He’ll git thar ’fore I kin,” he remarked. “It’s down hill all the way, an’ they’ll keep that gait, I reckon.”