And they went about eagerly looking for the singer with the gray locks and the vine-wreathed harp. They found him at last about midway the hall, leaning on his staff, a solitary amidst the throng. No one thought of asking him for a song; he was too old, too like one come from a tomb with unfashionable stories.
“Father,” said Tula, “we claim your service. You look weary, yet you must know the ancient chants, which, though I would not like to say it everywhere, please me best. Will you sing?”
He raised his head, and looked at her: she started. Something she saw in his eyes that had escaped her friends.
“A song from me!” he replied, as if astonished. “No, it cannot be. I have known some gentle hearts, and studied them to remember; but long since they went to dust. You do not know me. Imagining you discerned of what I was thinking, you were moved; you only pitied me, here so desolate.”
As he talked, she recovered her composure.
“Will you sing for me, father?” she again asked.
“O willingly! My memory is not so good as it used to be; yet one song, at least, I will give you from the numberless ills that crowd it.”
He looked slowly and tremulously around at the guests who had followed her, or stopped, as they were passing, to hear the conversation.
“As you say,” he then continued, “I am old and feeble, and it is wearisome to stand here; besides, my theme will be sad, and such as should be heard in quiet. Time was when my harp had honor,—to me it seems but yesterday; but now—enough! Here it were not well that my voice should be heard.”
She caught his meaning, and her whole face kindled; but Nenetzin spoke first.