He stopped.
“Sing on, my heart,” whispered Théroigne.
“Monsieur the Englishman does not approve my music.”
“Monsieur!” began the girl, in great scorn; but, to stay her, St Denys lifted up his voice a second time:—
“When Clœlia proved obdurate
To Phædon’s fond advances,
Repaid with scorn his woful state,
With flout his utterances,
‘Forego,’ he cried, ‘this acrid strain,
From such sweet lips a schism,