“Amid the smoke of our homes that burn,
From the dust where our brothers lie bleeding—
Our cry goes up to Thee, oh God!
“There!—that’s something like it.”
And he ran on with a breathless translation of the famous dirge for the Galician rebels of ’46, in which a devastated land wails like Rachel for her children.
Suddenly a sound rose—a sound reedy and clear, like a beautiful voice in the distance.
“Constance!”
The lad sprang to his feet. Constance laid hold on him.
“Listen, dear Otto—listen a moment!”
She held him fast, and breathing deep, he listened. The very melody he had just been humming rang out, from the same distant point; now pealing through the little house in a rich plenitude of sound, now delicate and plaintive as the chant of nuns in a quiet church, and finally crashing to a defiant and glorious close.
“What is it?” he Said, very pale, looking at her almost threateningly. “What have you been doing!”
“It’s our gift—our surprise—dear Otto!”