Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adèle is still seated where we left her, silent and abstracted.
The music commences. It is a merry air—a fandango: one of those to which the Andalusian foot delights to keep time.
Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face of Adèle. We endeavour to read its expression.
The first notes have startled her from her attitude of abstraction. Her eyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player, with looks of wonder—of inquiry.
The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically, approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down by the feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, and listens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face.
I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixed upon the girl’s, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet he seems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaning forward as if to read the thoughts that are passing within her.
He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some sudden resolution.
“Oh, Adèle! Adèle!” he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; “oh, sing that song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her—often, often. You remember it, Adèle! Look at her. Quick! quick! O God! Perhaps she may—”
He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, and with the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune to one of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanish hymn, “La madre a su hija” (The mother to her child). She sings it, accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energy into the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words with full and passionate effect—
“Tu duermes, cara niña!
Tu duertnes en la paz.
Los angeles del cielo—
Los angeles guardan, guardan,
Niña mia!—Ca—ra—mi—”