Sing high. Tho' the red sun dip
There is yet a day for me;
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea.
But the words fell with pathetic irony on Paul Vespan's ears, that must shortly be deaf to the sound of all human voices.
Did the lost love die and depart?
Many times since have we met;
For I hold the years in my heart,
And all that was is yet.
That verse was not for him. The light-hearted singer, no doubt, had had her love-passages, but she had evidently outlived them. He had no such memories to console or to detain him. He had lived solitary and misunderstood. He must die alone. Who would be sorry for him? Not this heartless singer, certainly. Poor Madge, who had been troubled, even in her singing, for her poet!
Paul turned into his room, and began to grope about for a match. Then he felt in his pockets. They were empty. He was poor, indeed. Fate had not left him so much as a light for his last journey. Nor was this the only delay. Across the landing a sweet voice called him back with tender insistence—
There is yet a day for me!
If only he could believe it! He had grown weary waiting for its dawn. The Poet's day is long in coming.
Nor youth I count for a ship
That was long ago lost at sea!
If it might be so! Paul staggered out of his dark room into the darkness beyond, clutching blindly at the air, for he was weak with long fasting. The song broke off. A woman called across the landing:—
"Who is there?"