He looked at the keyboard curiously. The little mistress of the bells displayed the two wooden gloves with which she encased her hands when she played the carillon.
"It would be impossible for one to play unless one's hands are armoured," she explained.
"It is almost a lost art," he mused aloud, "—this playing the carillon—this wonderful[pg 243] bell-music of the middle ages. There are few great bell-masters in this day."
"Few," she said dreamily.
"And"—he turned and stared at her—"few mistresses of the bells, I imagine."
"I think I am the only one in France or in Flanders.... And there are few carillons left. The Huns are battering them down. Towers of the ancient ages are falling everywhere in Flanders and in France under their shell fire. Very soon there will be no more of the old carillons left; no more bell-music in the world." She sighed heavily. "It is a pity."
She seated herself at the keyboard.
"Dare I play?" she asked, looking up over her shoulder.
"No; it would only mean a shell from the Huns."
She nodded, laid the wooden gloves beside her and let her delicate hands wander over the mute keys.