"Beata, who taught you that song?" cried Donatus, starting up from the soft moss. The tender words had gone to his head and heart like sweet wine. He passed his hand across his brow as if to wipe away the spell which had been lightly woven over him.
"Who taught you that song?" he asked again.
"No one, who should? No one could have heard what we were talking of to-day."
"But who taught you to say what you felt in that sweet fashion?"
"My father," said the child, and a deep melancholy rang through the words.
"You have never told me about him, Beata, how is that?
"Because I never can help crying when I speak of him, and that will not make you happy."
"Beata," said Donatus gravely, "you share my sorrows, and shall I not share yours? Tell me who was the wonderful man that taught a wild wood-bird to sing with such sweet art?"
"He was a troubadour; it was his profession to turn thoughts into artistic verse, and so he taught me. Poor father! The song of his lips was most sweet, and whoever heard him and his beautiful lute-playing, was made thankful and merry of heart. And yet he had to wander from place to place like me, and hide his handsome face under hideous disguises. For he was an exile and an outcast, and every man's hand was against him."
"And what crime had he committed?" asked Donatus.