Also in a lower tone Ruth answered: "That is Sister Francesca, singing. She has a heavenly voice."
"What is she singing?"
"An old Hungarian song. A mother's prayer for her child. She often sings it. And nothing could be more beautiful."
"Sister Francesca!" he exclaimed, but in a solemn whisper. He remembered his father's dying words.
"A famous singer," Ruth explained. "All the world has heard of her. She was never a mother but she sings this song with all the feeling and the——"
He did not hear the end of the sentence. He had started in the direction of the song, across the garden.
"Stop! Stop! Cyrus, stop. You don't know what you are doing!"
But he paid no attention. Again she called. She entreated, then commanded. Still he paid no attention. And he walked so fast that she stopped and stood still in helpless terror. She could only guess at what this humiliating misadventure might signify to the other sisters. On second thought she followed, but with the courage of despair. The catastrophe was at hand, and she would face it. As for Cyrus, he heard her not. He heard only the song. He heard only the woman singing—the voice and the song that had come to him beneath the stars, at Longfields!
At last he stopped. And when he stopped he was standing upon a stone terrace, where high arched windows reached the floor, their heavy casements now wide open.
There he stood, and listened.