“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the roll of men,
Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again.”
Sir Harold listened like one who was charmed. Then he opened the window and dropped a gold coin into the girl’s brown palm.
“Thank you, kind signor!” she said, in perfect English. “Shall I sing to you again?”
“Yes, sing me that song once more. The words appeal to me strongly, and the air is admirably adapted to your sweet voice,” cried Sir Harold.
The girl gazed at him wonderingly for a moment; then a soft light stole into her beautiful, dark eyes, and she sang to him again, a world of passion in her liquid notes:
“Away, away! Your smile’s a curse!
Oh, blot me from the roll of men,