l poems in the English language.

He subdued his voice to suit the melancholy hopelessness of the lines,
and rendered it with so much intensity of pathetic expression that it
was difficult to keep tears from filling the eyes. When he came to the
last verse, the anguish of a wasted life seemed to declare itself in
the complete despair of his low vibrating tones:

"Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love!"

The deep melancholy of the music and the quivering pathos of the deep
baritone voice were so affecting that it was almost a relief when the
song ceased. I had been looking out of the window at the fantastic
patterns of the moonlight on the garden walk, but now I turned to see
in Zara's face her appreciation of what we had just heard. To my
surprise she had left the room. Heliobas reclined in his easy-chair,
glancing up and down the columns of the Figaro; and the Prince still
sat at the piano, moving his fingers idly up and down the keys without
playing. The little page entered with a letter on a silver salver. It
was for his master. Heliobas read it quickly, and rose, saying:

"I must leave you to entertain yourselves for ten minutes while I
answer this letter. Will you excuse me?" and with the ever-courteous
salute to us which was part of his manner, he left the room.

I still remained at the window. Prince Ivan still dumbly played the
piano. There were a few minutes of absolute silence. Then the Prince
hastily got up, shut the piano, and approached me.

"Do you know where Zara is?" he demanded in a low, fierce tone.

I looked at him in surprise and a little alarm--he spoke with so much
suppressed anger, and his eyes glittered so strangely.

"No," I answered frankly. "I never saw her leave the room."

"I did," he said. "She slipped out like a ghost, or a witch, or an
angel, while I was singing the last verse of Swinburne's song. Do you
know Swinburne, mademoiselle?"

"No," I replied, wondering at his manner more and more. "I only know
him, as you do, to be a poet."

"Poet, madman, or lover--all three should be one and the same thing,"
muttered the Prince, clenching and unclenching that strong right hand
of his on which sparkled a