The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of passion.
The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein.
The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.
"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle.
"Williamson"—to the coachman—"give this man half a crown, and drive on."
While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away.
"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa—whoa, old girl. That chap's gone—half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night.
The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering—
"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked God I am as I am. Thank God for my child and a sacred memory——"