The girl lifted her eyes, and sending a beaming, serious glance through and through Ludwig, replied. "I don't understand you, sir. I don't know what you mean--why you ask me this?"
"You are a Spaniard, my child," Euchar began.
"I am," she answered, her voice trembling. "I am, indeed. You see me--you hear me. Why should I deny it?"
"Then, of course, you can play the guitar and sing a song?"
She covered her eyes with her hand, and said, in a scarce audible whisper, "Ah! I should like to play and sing you one. But my songs are burning hot; and here it is so cold--so cold!
"Do you know," said Euchar, speaking in Spanish, and in a heightened tone, "the song Laurel immortal?"
She clapped her hands, raised her glance to Heaven, tears filled her eyes; she flew to the table, seized the guitar, sprang, rather than walked back to the two friends, placed herself before Euchar, and began
"Laurel immortal al gran Palafox,
Gloria da España, de Francia terror!"
The expression which she put into this song was indescribable. From the deepest pain of death there flamed forth the most fiery enthusiasm--each note seemed to be a lightning flash which must shiver every ice-covering of the chilled breast. As for Ludwig he was--to use a familiar expression--ready to jump out of his skin with sheer rapture. He interrupted her singing with boisterous "Bravas!" "Bravissimas!" and a hundred other such expressions of approbation.