“Miss Carmen,” said the maid, answering his unspoken thought. “She often comes up to the chapel and sings for hours at a time––alone. The chapel is down there,” pointing to the end of the hall.
“Then––ah––leave me,” said the doctor. “I will proceed alone.”
The maid turned willingly and went below, while the man tiptoed to the chapel door. There he stopped and stood listening. The girl was singing in Spanish, and he could not understand the words. But they would have meant nothing to him then. It was the voice upon which they were borne that held him. The song was a weird lament that had come down to the children of Simití from the hard days of the Conquistadores. It voiced the untold wrongs of the Indian slaves; its sad, unvarying minor echoed their smothered moans under the cruel goad; on the plaintive melody of the repeated chorus their piteous cries were carried to heaven’s deaf ears; their dull despair floated up on the wailing tones of the little organ, and then died away, as died the hope of the innocent victims of Spanish lust.
The reverend doctor had never heard a song of that kind before. Nor could he readily associate the voice, which again and again he could not distinguish from the flute-like tones of the organ, with the sordidness and grime of material, fleshly existence. He entered softly and took a seat in the shadow of a pillar. The clear, sweet voice of the young girl flowed over him like celestial balm. Song after song she sang. Some were dreamy bits and snatches in Spanish and English; others were sacred in character. He wondered deeply, as the girl mused over these; yet he knew not that they were her own compositions. Curiosity and uncertainty mastered him at length, and he got softly to his feet and moved away from the pillar, that he might see from what manner of being issued such unbroken harmony. But in his eagerness his foot struck a chair, and the sound echoed loudly through the room.
The music abruptly ceased, and the girl rose and looked over the organ at the intruder.
“I––I beg your pardon,” said the clergyman, advancing in some embarrassment. “I was listening to your singing––uninvited, but none the less appreciative. I––”
“Wait, please!” cried the girl, hastily stooping over and fumbling with her shoes. The doctor laughed genially, as he grasped the situation.
“I took them off,” she explained hurriedly. “I am not yet accustomed to them. I never wore shoes until I left Simití.” Her face was scarlet, and she tried to cover her confusion with a little laugh.