The pain of death itself, compared
To this, is hardly worth a thought.”
A sob set to music, despair turned into song, a voice telling of unshed tears echoed through the night and gave way to silence for a time.
“Nom de Dieu! Do I dream, or am I going mad?” muttered de Sancerre to himself, peering down at his silent companion as if seeking an answer to the questions that beset him. Suddenly the voice, whose tones spoke to his heart in the only language known to all the world, again made music out of misery:
“There is a wound that never heals—
’Tis folly e’en to dream of healing;
Inquire not what a spirit feels
That aye has lost the sense of feeling.
“My heart is callous now, and bared
To every pang with sorrow fraught;