He turned obediently and began again to play the chords of accompaniment. He had been for a long time intensely anxious to hear her voice, of which he had heard so much. It irritated him now to have her determined to sing when she was obviously ill and still suffering from the effects of her fright.
The accompaniment reached the point where the voice joins it. He played softly, alert for the first rich notes. Mariposa’s chest rose with an inflation of air and she began to sing.
A sound, harsh, veiled and thin, filled the room. There was no volume, nor resonance, nor beauty in it. It was the ghost of a voice.
The teacher was so shocked that for a moment he stumbled in the familiar accompaniment. Then he went on, bending his head low over the keys, fearful of her seeing his face. Sounds unmusical, rasping, and discordant came from her lips. Everything that had once made it rich and splendid was gone, the very volume of it had dwindled to a thin, muffled thread, the color had flown from every tone.
For a bar or two she went on, then she stopped. Pierpont dared not turn at first. But he heard her behind him say hoarsely:
“What—what—is it?”
Then he wheeled round and saw her with wild eyes and white lips.
For a moment he could say nothing. Her appearance struck him with alarm, and he sat dumb on the stool staring at her.
“What is it?” she cried. “What has happened to it? Where is my voice?”
“It’s—it’s—certainly not in good condition,” he stammered.