She began to sing the old Hungarian ballad of the man who loses first his horse, then his home, and then his sweetheart, and consoles himself with the reflection that “more was lost at Mohacz field.” The song was one of the Gadfly's especial favourites; its fierce and tragic melody and the bitter stoicism of the refrain appealed to him as no softer music ever did.
Zita was in excellent voice; the notes came from her lips strong and clear, full of the vehement desire of life. She would have sung Italian or Slavonic music badly, and German still worse; but she sang the Magyar folk-songs splendidly.
The Gadfly listened with wide-open eyes and parted lips; he had never heard her sing like this before. As she came to the last line, her voice began suddenly to shake.
“Ah, no matter! More was lost——”
She broke down with a sob and hid her face among the ivy leaves.
“Zita!” The Gadfly rose and took the guitar from her hand. “What is it?”
She only sobbed convulsively, hiding her face in both hands. He touched her on the arm.
“Tell me what is the matter,” he said caressingly.
“Let me alone!” she sobbed, shrinking away. “Let me alone!”
He went quietly back to his seat and waited till the sobs died away. Suddenly he felt her arms about his neck; she was kneeling on the floor beside him.