off was Sorais talking to Good in her slow measured
tones.

The time went on; in another quarter of an hour I knew that,
according to their habit, the Queens would retire. As yet, Sir
Henry had had no chance of saying a word in private: indeed,
though we saw much of the royal sisters, it was by no means easy
to see them alone. I racked my brains, and at last an idea came
to me.

'Will the Queen be pleased,' I said, bowing low before Sorais,
'to sing to her servants? Our hearts are heavy this night; sing
to us, oh Lady of the Night' (Sorais' favourite name among the
people).

'My songs, Macumazahn, are not such as to lighten the heavy heart,
yet will I sing if it pleases thee,' she answered; and she rose
and went a few paces to a table whereon lay an instrument not
unlike a zither, and struck a few wandering chords.

Then suddenly, like the notes of some deep-throated bird, her
rounded voice rang out in song so wildly sweet, and yet with
so eerie and sad a refrain, that it made the very blood stand
still. Up, up soared the golden notes, that seemed to melt far
away, and then to grow again and travel on, laden with all the
sorrow of the world and all the despair of the lost. It was
a marvellous song, but I had not time to listen to it properly.
However, I got the words of it afterwards, and here is a translation
of its burden, so far as it admits of being translated at all.

SORAIS' SONG

As a desolate bird that through darkness its lost way is winging,
As a hand that is helplessly raised when Death's sickle is swinging,
So is life! ay, the life that lends passion and breath to my singing.

As the nightingale's song that is full of a sweetness unspoken,
As a spirit unbarring the gates of the skies for a token,
So is love! ay, the love that shall fall when his pinion is broken.

As the tramp of the legions when trumpets their challenge are sending,
As the shout of the Storm-god when lightnings the black sky are rending,
So is power! ay, the power that shall lie in the dust at its ending.

So short is our life; yet with space for all things to forsake us,
A bitter delusion, a dream from which nought can awake us,
Till Death's dogging footsteps at morn or at eve shall o'ertake us.

Refrain

Oh, the world is fair at the dawning -- dawning -- dawning,
But the red sun sinks in blood -- the red sun sinks in blood.

I only wish that I could write down the music too.

'Now, C