Rachel had revered her people's song, but there was something
in this half-heard music that touched her youth and her love of life.
She stopped to hear it well.
It had all the power and profundity of the male voice, but it was as
subdued, as flawless and sympathetic as a distant, deep-toned bell.
There was not even a breath of effort in it, nor an insincere
expression, and it pursued a theme of little range and much simplicity.
The singer sang as spontaneously as a bird sings. She did not catch
the words, but something in the fervor of the music told her it was a
song of love--and a song of love unsatisfied. There was a pathos in it
that touched the fountain of her tears and awoke to willingness that
impulse in her womanhood that longs to comfort.
As she stood in an attitude of rapt attention. Kenkenes rounded a
curve in the valley just ahead of her. The song died suddenly on his
lips and the color deepened in his cheeks.
"Fie!" he exclaimed. "Here thou art, O Athor, catching me in the
imperfection of my practice. Now will the keen edge of their perfect
beauty be dulled upon thine ear when I come to lift my tuneful
devotions to thee."
"And it was thou singing?" she asked.
"It was I--and Pentaur; mine the voice; Pentaur's the song.
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