"Before thy windows shall ring
The song of the nightingale,"
sang the woman's voice above, and the accompanying piano completed the air with an organ-like closing accord.
"Before thy windows shall ring
The song of the nightingale,"
Karl softly repeated, in his beautiful baritone, thrilling with an approaching tempest of passion, his arms clasped Ada's waist, and he gazed up at her with wild, flaming eyes. She bent down to him and her lips met his, which nearly scorched them. Leaning back, and gently pushing his head away, she whispered:
"Don't repeat verses by Heine; say something which is yours, and is composed for me."
"That I will, Ada," he cried, and, kneeling before her, clasping her in a close embrace and devouring her face with rapturous eyes, his whole being wrought up to the highest pitch of emotion, he said in a rapid improvisation, bursting from the inmost depths of his soul:
"In the shadowy hour when ghosts do flit,
Thou art to me a beauteous dream;
To thy lips I cling, yet while I love,
My happiness scarce real doth seem."
"Thy mouth and thy fair hands I kiss,
I kiss thine eyes and thy silken hair,
And should our lives end at this hour,
Still we should die a happy pair."
Her eyes were half closed, and her bosom heaved.
After a short pause, he continued slowly in a tremulous voice: