“And you can sing and play at sight—can you not?”
“Yes, if it is not too difficult.”
“Is this difficult?” he asked, holding a page out to her.
“No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirely at the music—not at the words.
“It is a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it for us. Will you?”
“Certainly.”
“Come, then,” he said, and took her hand, and led her to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her, saying to himself, “If she can sing that through without emotion—ay, or with emotion—if she can get through it at all—she can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.”
Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to singing them.
And he was watching her intently. But she read through the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never changing its hue. Then she restored the first page to its place before her, and began to play the prelude. The ladies and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her. Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfaltering as her cheek remained unchanging—though her father trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear. That song was “The Broken Heart,” by Thomas Moore. Zuleime sang—
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,