Shedding our blood like wine;—
Sin’s sweetness is too sweet, and if the shame
Of love must be our curse, we hurl the blame
Back on the gods who gave us love with breath
And tortured us from passion into death!
This strange song, sung in the most glorious of baritones, full and rich, and vibrating with power and sweetness, had a visibly thrilling effect upon us all. Again we were struck dumb with surprise and something like fear,—and again Diana Chesney broke the silence.
“You call that simple!” she said, half petulantly.
“Quite so. Love and Death are the simplest things in the world”—replied Lucio.—“The ballad is a mere trifle,—it is entitled ‘The Last Love-Song’ and is supposed to be the utterance of a lover about to kill his mistress and himself. Such events happen every day,—you know that by the newspapers,—they are perfectly common-place——”
He was interrupted by a sharp clear voice ringing imperatively across the room—
“Where did you learn that song?”