The troubadour unstrung his instrument, and, tuning it a moment softly at his ear, wandered into a symphony as sweet as falling flowers. His eyes, as he played, grew dreamy and remote; he forgot his purpose and his company; the spirit of the haunted place stole into his brain, drugging it to oblivion of all else. The words came, when they came, independent of his own volition, it seemed:
“I know not what I love—
A shadow, a delight,
Like the morning moon,
Thin wraith of her that night
Bared warm to my impassioned dreams,
And now so cold and distant seems.
“I know not that I love—
Yet one flower from its breast
Doth breathe a sweeter perfume