Our cry goes up to Thee, oh God!’
‘There!—that’s something like it.’
And he ran on with a breathless translation of the ‘Z dymen posarow,’ the famous dirge for the Galician rebels of ’46, in which a devastated land wails like Rachel for her children.
Suddenly a sound—a sound reedy and clear, like a beautiful voice in the distance.
‘Constance!’
The lad sprang to his feet. Constance laid hold on him.
‘Listen, dear Otto—listen a moment!’
She held him fast, and breathing deep, he listened. The very melody he had just been humming rang out, from the same distant point; now pealing through the little house in a rich plenitude of sound, now delicate and plaintive as the chant of nuns in a quiet church, and finally crashing to a defiant and glorious close.
‘What is it?’ he said, very pale, looking at her almost threateningly. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘It’s our gift—our surprise—dear Otto!’