But
as I listened, I remembered Ringan and Lawrence, and, "Ah, my silken
friends," thought I, "little you know the judgment that is preparing.
Some day soon, unless God is kind, there will be blood on the lace and
the war-whoop in these pleasant chambers."
Then a voice said louder than the rest, "Dulcinea will sing to us. She
promised this morning in the garden."
At this there was a ripple of "Bravas," and presently I heard the
tuning of a lute. The low twanging went on for a little, and suddenly I
was seized with a presentiment. I set down my tankard, and waited with
my heart in my mouth.
Very clear and pure the voice rose, as fresh as the morning song of
birds. There was youth in it and joy and pride--joy of the fairness of
the earth, pride of beauty and race and strength, "_My dear and only
love_" it sang, as it had sung before; but then it had been a girl's
hope, and now it was a woman's certainty. At the first note, the past
came back to me like yesterday. I saw the moorland gables in the rain,
I heard the swirl of the tempest, I saw the elfin face in the hood
which had cheered the traveller on his way. In that dim light I could
not see the singer, but I needed no vision. The strangeness of the
thing clutched at my heart, for here was the voice which had never been
out of my ears singing again in a land far from the wet heather and the
driving mists of home.
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