Ye know that on the battle-field our gallant chief has died.
Weep the Victor of Benn Burb! Weep him, young men and old!
Weep for him, ye women! your beautiful lies cold.
Soft as a woman’s was your voice, O’Neil; bright was your eye.
Oh, why did ye leave us, Owen? Why did you die?
Your troubles are over; you’re at rest with God on high.
But we’re forlorn and sad, Owen. Why did you die?
As she concluded with a low sob of supreme dramatic effect, Lord Mulgrave drew a deep breath, and, carrying the little cold hand to his lips, said, “My dear child, do you know that my name is Owen? Your singing is no mere accomplishment; it is a great gift.”
“Did she sing?” she asked faintly.
“Yes. It was the same voice”; and he sighed as he released her fingers.