"Now you are getting gloomy again. As your spiritual adviser I cannot permit it. You have put a daring thought into my head, and you are bound to think of me, not yourself, at present. Will you sing something to me before I go? You know Lilias' song of triumph; you taught it to her. Sing it to me to-night, it will be a good omen."
Valentine hesitated for a moment. Then she went over to the piano and opened it. Her fingers touched one or two chords tremblingly. Suddenly she stopped, her face worked. She looked at Carr with a piteous expression.
"I cannot sing the triumph song," she said, "it is not in me. I should do it no justice. This must take its place. But it is not for you, remember. Oh, no, I pray God never for you. Listen, don't scold me afterwards. Listen."
Her fingers ran over the keys, her voice swelled and filled the room:—
"The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine.
Oh, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill.
And through the silver meads.
Ravelston, Ravelston.
The stile beneath the tree.
The maid that kept her mother's kine.
The song that sang she.
She sang her song, she kept her kine.
She sat beneath the thorn.
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode through the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk bells ring.
His belted jewels shine—
O, Keith of Ravelston.
The sorrows of thy line!"
"Now, good-night," said Valentine, springing to her feet. "Don't question me about the song. I sang it, but I cannot speak of it. The clock is about to strike. It is your hour for farewell. Oh, yes, I wish you all luck—all luck. The clock is striking——! Oh, what a noise there is in the street!"