"Are those your thoughts?" I asked then, half turning.
"No," said Desiree, "but I want to kill my thoughts. As for them—"
She hesitated, and after a short pause her voice again broke into melody:
"Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
That brings our friends up from the underworld;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more."
Her voice, subdued and low, breathed a sweetness that seemed almost to be of another world. My ear quivered with the vibrations, and long after she was silent the last mellow note floated through my brain.
Suddenly I became conscious of another sound, scarcely less musical. It, too, was low; so low and faint that at first I thought my ear deceived me, or that some distant echo was returning Desiree's song down the dark tunnel.
Gradually, very gradually, it became louder and clearer, until at length I recognized it. It was the rush of water, unbroken, still low and at a great distance. I turned to remark on it to Harry, but Desiree took the words from my mouth.
"I seem to hear something—like the surf," she said. "That isn't possible, is it?"
I could have smiled but for the deep note of hope in her voice.
"Hardly," I answered. "I have heard it for several minutes. It is probably some shallows. We must look sharp."