"It was like the soft and gentle echo of a voice singing in the sky.

"Soon a gentle breeze, burdened with the perfume of the citron-tree, wafted sounds more distinct.

"I was still holding the icy hand of my mother. I felt her tremble.

"This celestial voice approached--approached.

"The chords of a melodious instrument accompanied it, and gave it an inexpressible charm.

"My mother started again; she raised her head; she listened. For the first time in many hours she gave signs of life.

"As the enchanting sounds approached my mother seemed bom again.

"I felt her hand grow warm again; I felt her hand press mine.

"I heard her voice at last; her voice till then so mute.

"'My child, these songs sink in my soul; they calm me! Tears, oh, tears! Yes, tears at last! I had so much need to weep.'

"And I felt two burning tears fall on my brow.

"'Oh, my mother, my mother!' 'Silence, my child, be silent!'

said she, putting one of her hands upon my mouth, and pointing to the window with the other. 'Listen to the voice! listen! there it is!

there it is!'"

Reine, deeply moved, pressed the hand of Stephanette as she shook her head with a touching expression of pity.

The Bohemian continued:

"The moon of my country shines as the sun of this country.

"In its light slowly pa.s.sed the young emir, mounted on Azib, his beautiful white horse.

"Azib, gentle as a lamb, courageous as a lion, white as a swan.

"The emir let his reins fall on the neck of Azib. Happy, he sang of a happy love, and accompanied himself on his guzla.

"His songs were not joyous: they were tender; they were melancholy.

"He pa.s.sed, singing.

"'Silence, child, silence!' whispered my mother, pressing my hand convulsively. 'That voice divine does me so much good!'

"Helas! by degrees the voice died away; the emir had pa.s.sed; the voice was gone; then one heard nothing more,--nothing more; not a sound.

"'Ah, I fall back in the dreadful horror of my night,' said my mother. 'This celestial music seemed to dissipate the darkness. Alas!

alas!' and she wrung her hands in despair.

"Alas! all night she wept.

"The morrow her despair increased; her reason grew feeble. In her delirium she called me a wicked son. She accused me of silencing this voice. If she heard this voice no more, she must die.

"She was, indeed, going to die. For many hours she refused all nourishment. What could I do? What could I do?

"The emir of our tribe was the most powerful of emirs.

"If he raised his djerid ten thousand cavaliers mounted horse.

"His palace was worthy of the sultan, his treasures immense. Alas! how could I dare conceive the thought of saying to him, 'Come, and by your songs s.n.a.t.c.h an old and despairing woman from death?'

"And yet that I dared. My mother had perhaps but a few more hours to live. I went to the palace."

"And the emir?" cried Reine, deeply moved and interested, while Stephanette, not less excited than her mistress, clasped her hands in admiration.

The Bohemian gave the two young girls a glance of indescribable sadness, and said, interrupting this kind of improvising, and laying his instrument on his knees: "'My mother was a woman,' said the emir to me, and he came."

"He came!" exclaimed Reine, with enthusiasm. "Ah, the n.o.ble heart!"

"Oh, yes, the most n.o.ble of n.o.ble hearts," repeated the Bohemian, with transport; "he deigned, he so grand, he so powerful, to come, for five days, every evening into our poor dwelling. How shall I tell you of his touching, almost filial kindness? Alas, if my mother had not been stricken with a mortal disease, the songs of the emir would have saved her, for the effect they produced on her was wonderful. But she died at last without suffering, in a profound ecstasy. This guzla, it once belonged to the emir; he gave it to me. Thanks to it the last moments of my mother were peaceful,--poor mother!"

A tear glittered a moment in the black eye of the Bohemian; then, as if he wished to drive away these painful memories, he took up his guzla quickly and recited these other stanzas in a proud and excited voice, as he made his sonorous instrument resound:

"The name of the emir is sacred in his tribe; let him but speak and we will die.

"Not one is more brave; not one is more beautiful; not one is more n.o.ble.

"He is hardly twenty years old, and his name is already the terror of other tribes.

"His arm is delicate like that of a woman, but it is strong like that of a warrior.

"His face is smiling, is beautiful like that of the spirit who appears in the dreams of young girls; but it is sometimes terrible like that of the G.o.d of battles.

"His voice charms and seduces like a magic philter, but sometimes it bursts forth like a clarion."

In his enthusiasm, the Bohemian approached Reine and said to her, as he opened the medallion set into the neck of the guzla: "See! see if he is not the most beautiful of mortals!"

The young girl looked at the portrait, and uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror. The portrait was that of the stranger in the rocks of Ollioules, who had saved the life of her father!

At that moment the door of Reine's drawing-room was opened, and she saw before her Honorat de Berrol, followed by Captain Luquin Trinquetaille, who had just arrived from Nice on the tartan, _The Holy Terror of the Moors, by the Grace of G.o.d_.

CHAPTER XIV. JEALOUSY

When Honorat de Berrol entered Reine's apartment, Stephanette wished to retire so as to leave the two lovers alone.

She took one step toward the door, but Reine said to her, quickly, in a voice full of emotion, "Remain."