“Nobody taught me; it comes into my head and I sing; whoever is to hear it, he will hear it, and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not understand it.”
“What is your name, my songstress?”
“He who baptized me knows.”
“And who baptized you?”
“How should I know?”
“What a secretive girl you are! But look here, I have learned something about you”—she neither changed countenance nor moved her lips, as though my discovery was of no concern to her—“I have learned that you went to the shore last night.”
And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all that I had seen, thinking that I should embarrass her. Not a bit of it! She burst out laughing heartily.
“You have seen much, but know little; and what you do know, see that you keep it under lock and key.”
“But supposing, now, I was to take it into my head to inform the Commandant?” and here I assumed a very serious, not to say stern, demeanour.
She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid herself like a bird frightened out of a thicket. My last words were altogether out of place. I had no suspicion then how momentous they were, but afterwards I had occasion to rue them.