As the juggler she offered songs of battle, songs of conquest, drama. To all this they cried:
“No! No! Give us rather a drinking song!”
At last yielding to their demand she sang: “Hallelujah, Sing the Hallelujah of Wine.”
Then as the prior descended upon the throng, scattering them like tiny birds before a gale, she stood there alone, defenseless, as the prior denounced her.
Real tears were in her eyes as she began her farewell to the glorious liberty of hedge and field, river, road and forest of France.
This farewell was destined to end unfinished for suddenly a great bass voice roared:
“What is this? You are not Marjory Dean! Where is she? What are you doing here?”
A huge man with a fierce black mustache stood towering above her. She recognized in him the director of the opera, and wished that the section of the stage beneath her feet might sink, carrying her from sight.
“Here I am,” came in a clear, cold tone. It was Marjory Dean who spoke. She advanced toward the middle of the stage.
Riveted to their places, the members of the company stood aghast. Full well they knew the fire that lay ever smouldering in Marjory Dean’s breast.