And indeed from some room far away now came this verse of a well-known hymn, sung in a deep vibrating voice full of a woeful, contrite tremulousness:
"Oh, Lord, the number of our sins
And vileness, who shall purge?
Withhold the fury of Thy wrath,
Though we deserve its pouring forth,
And stay Thy chastening scourge!"
Melancholy, heart-rending was the sense of penitence conveyed by this deep, vibrating, bell-like voice. A penitential hymn in the house of the headsman!
The sad-faced youth shivered at the sound of this voice and seemed to awake suddenly from out of a reverie. He passed his hand once or twice across his forehead as if to rally his wits and reduce the chaos within and around him to some sort of order, but gradually sank back again into his former lethargy.
A short time afterwards the same hymn was heard again; but the voice of the singer this time was not the sonorous, manly voice they had heard before, it was a heavenly, pure, childlike voice which now began to sing, full of the magic charm and sweetness of a crystal harmonica:
"Yet know we, Lord, whoso repents
And turns his heart to Thee,
Shall aye find favour in Thy sight;
Nor wilt thou hide from him Thy light,
Thy mercy he shall see."
Angels in Heaven could not have sung more sweetly than the voice that sang this verse. Who could it be? An angel proclaiming remission of sins in the house of the headsman!
"So the old cut-throat still keeps the girl under a glass case, eh?"
"He wants to bring her up as a saint on purpose to aggravate me, for he knows very well that I never could endure anything of the saintly sort."
"Apparently the old chap is stark staring mad."