“What?” asked the minstrel.
“Love’s quarrel.”
The minstrel turned his head, and their eyes met, and, in meeting, lingered long. Then he moved away, and with face turned from her and towards the river, gave the melody of his wondrous voice to the following lines:—
LOVE’S QUARREL.
“Standing by the river, gazing on the river,
See it paved with starbeams,—heaven is at our feet;
Now the wave is troubled, now the rushes quiver;
Vanished is the starlight: it was a deceit.
“Comes a little cloudlet ‘twixt ourselves and heaven,
And from all the river fades the silver track;
Put thine arms around me, whisper low, ‘Forgiven!’
See how on the river starlight settles back.”
When he had finished, still with face turned aside, the lady did not, indeed, whisper “Forgiven,” nor put her arms around him; but, as if by irresistible impulse, she laid her hand lightly on his shoulder.
The minstrel started.
There came to his ear,—he knew not from whence, from whom,—
“Mischief! mischief! Remember the little child!”
“Hush!” he said, staring round. “Did you not hear a voice?”
“Only yours,” said the lady.