He paused, and his eyes glowed with a strange light.
"You know I haven't very much to live for, Miss Lucy," he said earnestly, "but if I had all that God could give me I'd stand by Jeff against the sheep. It's all right to be a poet or an artist, a lover of truth and beauty, and all that, but if a man won't stand up for his friends when they're in trouble he's a kind of closet philosopher that shrinks from all the realities of life--a poor, puny creature, at the best."
He stood up very straight as he poured out this torrent of words, gazing at her intently, but with his eyes set, as if he beheld some vision. Yet whether it was of himself and Jeff, fighting their hopeless battle against the sheep, or of his life as it might have been if Kitty had been as gentle with him as this woman by his side, there was no telling. His old habit of reticence fell back upon him as suddenly as it had been cast aside, and he led the way up the little stream in silence. As he walked, the ardor of his passion cooled, and he began to point out things with his eloquent hands--the minnows, wheeling around in the middle of a glassy pool; a striped bullfrog, squatting within the spray of a waterfall; huge combs of honey, hanging from shelving caverns along the cliff where the wild bees had stored their plunder for years. At last, as they stood before a drooping elder whose creamy blossoms swayed beneath the weight of bees, he halted and motioned to a shady seat against the cañon wall.
"There are gardens in every desert," he said, as she sank down upon the grassy bank, "but this is ours."
They sat for a while, gazing contentedly at the clusters of elder blossoms which hung above them, filling the air with a rich fragrance which was spiced by the tang of sage. A ruby-throated humming-bird flashed suddenly past them and was gone; a red-shafted woodpecker, still more gorgeous in his scarlet plumage, descended in uneven flights from the _sahuaros_ that clung against the cliff and, fastening upon a hollow tree, set up a mysterious rapping.
"He is hunting for grubs," explained Hardy. "Does that inspire you?"
"The Mexicans call him _pajaro corazon_--_páh-hah-ro cor-ah-sóne_," continued the poet. "Does that appeal to your soul?"