“Are you married?” she asked, as though speaking to herself.
“No; I am engaged.”
“Then, why——” and she stopped, confused.
Morris guessed what had been in her mind, and of a sudden felt terribly ashamed.
“Because of that witch-song of yours,” he answered, with a flash of anger, “which made me forget everything.”
She smiled and answered. “It wasn’t the song; it was the excitement and struggle which blotted out the rest. One does not really think at all at such moments, or so I believe. I know that I didn’t, not just when we bumped against the rock. But it is odd that you should believe that you remembered my song, for, according to tradition, that is just what the chant should do, and what it always did. Its ancient name means ‘The Over-Lord,’ because those who sang it and those who heard it were said to remember nothing else, and to fear nothing, not even Death our lord. It is the welcome that they give to death.”
“What egregious nonsense!” he blurted out.
“I daresay; but then, why do you understand my nonsense so well? Tell me, if you will, of what blood are you?”
“Danish, I believe, in the beginning.”
“Oh,” she said, laughing, “no doubt that accounts for it. Some forefather of yours may have heard the song of the Over-Lord, perhaps from the lips of some foremother of mine. So, of course, you remembered and understood.”