There must have been an instinct of pride or defiance in her heart, for she raised her head and looked at him.
"Yes, I will sing for you, Lance," she replied. "Those water-lilies take me home. I will sing a song of which not one word has passed my lips since I saw you. Listen, see if you know the words:
"'In sheltered vale a mill-wheel
Still sings its tuneful lay.
My darling once did dwell there,
But now she's far away.
A ring in pledge I gave her,
And vows of love we spoke—
Those vows are all forgotten,
The ring asunder broke.'"
The rich, beautiful voice, low and plaintive, now seemed to float over the water: it died away among the water-lilies; it seemed to hang like a veil over the low boughs; it startled the birds, and hushed even the summer winds to silence. So sweet, so soft, so low, as he listened, it stole into his heart and worked sweet and fatal mischief. He buried his face in his hands and wept aloud.
On went the sweet voice, with its sad story: he held up his hand with a gesture of entreaty.
"Hush, Leone," he said, "for God's sake, hush. I cannot bear it."
On went the sweet voice:
"'But while I hear that mill-wheel
My pains will never cease;
I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace,
For there alone is peace.'"
"I will sing that verse again," she said, "it is prophetic."
"'I would the grave would hide me,
For there alone is peace.'"