Then one or two, more daring, put their little hands up to his face and
touched his moustache, and all of them, while both examinations were
going on, kept up a running conversation of cooing and singing which
evidently conveyed their ideas from one to the other on the subject of
this most marvellous visit of these two strange beings with neither
wings nor feathers, but who, most undoubtedly, had other means of
flying, since it was quite certain that they had come from another
world.
Their ordinary speech was a low crooning note, like the language in
which doves converse, mingled with a twittering current of undertone.
But every moment it rose into higher notes, evidently expressing wonder
or admiration, or both.
"You were right about the universal language," said Redgrave, when he
had submitted to the stroking process for a few moments. "These people
talk in music, and, as far as I can see or hear, their opinion of us,
or, at least, of you, is distinctly flattering. I don't know what they
take _me_ for, and I don't care, but as we'd better make friends with
them suppose you sing them 'Home, Sweet Home,' or the 'Swanee River.' I
shouldn't wonder if they consider our talking voices most horrible
discords, so you might as well give them something different."
While he was speaking the sounds about them suddenly hushed, and, as
Redgrave said afterwards, it was something like the silence that follows
a cannon shot.
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