He gently struck the chords. His gentleness had, however, a firmness, a deep persuasiveness, which drew every face like a call. A few chords waving, as it were, over the piano, and then he whispered:
"Now."
"Please go on for a minute longer," she begged.
"My throat feels dry all at once."
"Face away from the rest, towards me," he said gently.
She did so. His voice took a note softly, and held it. Presently her voice as softly joined it, his stopped, and hers went on:
"In the lodge of the Mother of Men,
In the land of Desire,
Are the embers of fire,
Are the ashes of those who return,
Who return to the world:
Who flame at the breath
Of the Mockers of Death.
O Sweet, we will voyage again
To the camp of Love's fire,
Nevermore to return!"
"How am I doing?" she said at the end of this verse. She really did not know—her voice seemed an endless distance away. But she felt the stillness in the drawing-room.
"Well," he said. "Now for the other. Don't be afraid; let your voice, let yourself, go."
"I can't let myself go."