The Bohemian shook his head sadly, and replied:
“That is a sad story, mademoiselle; there are more tears than smiles in it.”
“Tell us,—tell us!” exclaimed Reine, deeply interested in the romantic turn the incident had taken. “Relate to us how this guzla came into your hands. You seem to be above your present condition.”
The Bohemian uttered a profound sigh, fixed a piercing look on Reine, and struck a few chords which vibrated a long time under the arched roof of the turret.
“But tell me the story of this guzla,” said Reine, with the impatience of a young girl.
The wanderer, without replying, made a supplicating gesture. He began to sing, accompanying himself with taste, or, rather, playing softly some air of tender melancholy, while, with a sweet and grave tone, he recited the following stanzas.
Although it lacked rhythm and rhyme, the language had a certain strange charm; he rendered in a sort of recitative the words:
“Far is the country where I was born; the sands of the desert surround it like an arid sea.