The bard, after a few preliminary thrums upon an imbecile harp, burst into song. He occupied several moments in reciting a ballad of chivalry, and although his manner was dramatic, his voice was sadly cracked and out of tune.
“Tilly,” said the Professor, “remember to note in your journal that the musical system here is constructed from a defective minor scale, with incorrect intervals. I observed precisely the same characteristics in the song that our Irish nurse, Mary, used to put you to sleep with when you were a baby. I stood outside the chamber door one night, and wrote the strain down as she sang it. This proves that it is very ancient.”
“You like the song, then?” asked the Baron.
“It is very interesting, indeed—very!” replied the Professor. “I think we shall obtain a great deal of valuable information here. No, Tilly, you had better refuse it,” said the Professor, observing that Sir Dinadan, who appeared to be animated by a resolute purpose to stuff Miss Baffin, was pressing another dish upon her, “you will spoil your night’s rest.”
“Do you sing, Sir Baffin?” inquired Lady Bors.
“Never in company, my lady,” replied the Professor; “my vocalization would excite too much alarm.”
The Baron and his wife manifestly did not comprehend the pleasantry.
“My daughter sings very nicely; but you can hear her sing without her lips being opened. Excuse me for a moment.”
The Professor went to his apartment, and presently returned, bringing with him a phonograph. Placing it upon the table, he turned the crank. From the funnel at once issued a lovely soprano voice, singing, with exquisite enunciation and inflection, a song, every word of which was heard by the listeners.
Lady Bors looked scared, Sir Dinadan crossed himself, the Baron eyed the Professor doubtfully, the minstrel over in the corner laid down his harp, and relieved his overcharged feelings by bursting into tears, which he wiped away with the sleeve of his tunic.