Till day be done and she be dead!”
The voice and playing lingered among the golden shadows, hushed to a whisper, ceased.
“Is it very old, that sad little song?” he asked at last.
“My mother wrote it.... There is the Mea Culpa, still, which ends it. Shall I sing it?”
“Go on,” he nodded.
So she sang the Mea Culpa:
III
“Winds in the whinns
Shall kene for me—
(For Love is Love though men be men!)