may I hear it again?" "Boy," said the singer
gravely, "I had rather have such a look as you gave me during the song
than a golden crown. You will not understand what I say, but you paid
me the homage of the pure heart, the best reward that the minstrel
desires."

Then he conferred with the other boy in a low tone, and struck a very
sad yet strong chord upon his lute; and then, with a grave face, he
sang what to Paul seemed like a dirge for a dead hero who had done
with mortal things, and whose death seemed more a triumph than a
sorrow. When he had sung the first verse, the pipe came softly and
sadly in, like the voice of grief that could not be controlled, the
weeping of those on whom lay the shadow of loss. To Paul, in a dim
way--for he was but a child--the song seemed the voice of the world,
lamenting its noblest, yet triumphing in their greatness, and desirous
to follow in their steps. It brought before him all the natural
sorrows of death, the call to quit the sweet and pleasant things of
the world--a call that could not be denied, and that was in itself
indeed stronger and even sweeter than the delights which it bade its
listeners leave. And Paul seemed to walk in some stately procession of
men far off and ancient, who followed a great king to the grave, and
whose hearts were too full of wonder to think yet what they had lost.
It was an uplifting sadness; and when the sterner strain came to an
end, Paul said very quietly, putting into words the thoughts of his
full heart, "I did not think that death could be so beautiful." And
the minstrel smiled, but Paul saw that his eyes were full of tears.

Then all at once the minstrel struck the lute swiftly and largely, and
sang a song of those that march to victory, not elated nor excited,
but strong to dare and to do; and Paul felt his heart beat within him,
and he longed to be of the company. After he had sung this to an end,
there was a silence, and the minstrel said to Paul, yet as though half
speaking to himself, "There, my son, I have given you a specimen of my
art; and I think from your look that you might be of the number of
those that make these rich jewels that men call songs; and should you
try to do so, be mindful of these two things: let them be perfect
first. You will make many that are not perfect. In some the soul will
be wanting; in others the body, in a manner of speaking, will be
amiss; for they are living things, these songs, and he that makes them
is