“My moon-lute.”
“Oh, is that what it’s called?”
She nodded, touched the strings. He watched her exquisite hands.
“Shall I?” she inquired a little shyly.
“Go ahead. I’d like to hear it!”
“I haven’t touched it in months—not since I was on the steamer.” She sat up in her hammock and began to swing there; and played and sang while swinging in the flecked shadow of the orange bloom:
“Little Isle of Cispangou,
Isle of iris, isle of cherry,
Tell your tiny maidens merry
Clouds are looming over you!
La-ē-la!
La-ē-la!
All your ocean’s but a ferry;
Ships are bringing death to you!
La-ē-lou!
La-ē-lou!
“Little Isle of Cispangou,
Half a thousand ships are sailing;
Captain Death commands each crew;
Lo! the ruddy moon is paling!
La-ē-la!
La-ē-la!
Clouds the dying moon are veiling,
Every cloud a shroud for you!
La-ē-lou!
La-ē-lou!”
“Cispangou,” she explained, “is the very, very ancient name, among the Mongols, for Japan.”
“It’s not exactly a gay song,” he said. “What’s it about?”