Notwithstanding the humility of his position, the Bohemian did not appear to be much intimidated in the presence of Reine.

He saluted her with a sort of easy respect as he took a sharp and rapid survey of the objects which surrounded her.

As Stephanette had remarked, the Singer’s exterior had greatly improved; his slender and well-formed figure looked wonderfully well in the scarlet doublet, the present from the baron; his collar was fastened with the flame-coloured ribbon, a present from Stephanette; he wore wide trousers of coarse white stuff; his dark blue gaiters, embroidered with red wool, reached above his knees. His black hair enframed a thin, sunburnt but intelligent face.

He held in his hand a kind of guitar with a neck of ebony expensively inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl; at its upper end the neck formed a sort of palette, in the middle of which was a small, round plate chased with gold, resembling the lid of a medallion.

We emphasise the costliness of this instrument because it seemed very strange that a strolling Bohemian should be its possessor.

Stephanette herself was struck with it, and cried:

“Why, Singer, I never saw that beautiful guitar before!”

These words attracted the attention of Reine, and, as surprised as her maid, she said to the Bohemian:

“Really, this is a very expensive instrument for a travelling artisan.”

“I am poor, mademoiselle, sometimes I have wanted bread, but ah! I would rather die of hunger than sell this guzla. My arms are weak, but they would become as strong as brass to defend this guzla. They would only take it from me after my death. It is my most precious treasure; I hardly dare to play it. But the rose of Anbiez wishes to hear me; all that I now desire is that my song may be worthy of the instrument and of her who listens to me.”

The Bohemian spoke French quite purely, although he had something guttural in his Arabian accent.

Reine exchanged a glance of surprise with her attendant, as she heard this florid Oriental speech, which contrasted singularly with the condition of the wanderer.

“But this guzla, as you call this instrument, how did you come to possess it?”

The Bohemian shook his head sadly, and replied:

“That is a sad story, mademoiselle; there are more tears than smiles in it.”

“Tell us,—tell us!” exclaimed Reine, deeply interested in the romantic turn the incident had taken. “Relate to us how this guzla came into your hands. You seem to be above your present condition.”

The Bohemian uttered a profound sigh, fixed a piercing look on Reine, and struck a few chords which vibrated a long time under the arched roof of the turret.

“But tell me the story of this guzla,” said Reine, with the impatience of a young girl.

The wanderer, without replying, made a supplicating gesture. He began to sing, accompanying himself with taste, or, rather, playing softly some air of tender melancholy, while, with a sweet and grave tone, he recited the following stanzas.

Although it lacked rhythm and rhyme, the language had a certain strange charm; he rendered in a sort of recitative the words:

“Far is the country where I was born; the sands of the desert surround it like an arid sea.

“I lived there with my mother: she was poor, she was old, she was blind.

“I loved my mother, as the unhappy love those who love them.

“My mother was sad, sad, very sad, after she had lost her sight.

“I went into the valley to look for flowers.

“She tried to console herself for not seeing their smiling faces by inhaling their perfume.

“The voice of a son is always sweet to the ear of a mother.

“I spoke to her; sometimes she smiled.

“But never to see! never to see! that filled her with sorrow.

“She sank by degrees into a mute despair.

“Before sinking into this despair, leaning on my arm, she went out; she loved to go at set of sun and sit under the orange-trees in the garden of the young and brave emir of our tribe.

“The gentle warmth of the sun revived my mother.

“She loved to listen to the murmur of the cascades, which seemed to sing as they fell into the basin of marble.

“One day, when she lamented more bitterly than ever the loss of her sight, she refused to go out.

“I prayed her; I wept; she was inflexible.

“Seated in the most solitary corner of our dwelling, her venerable head wrapped in her black mantle, she remained motionless.

“She no longer desired to eat; she wished to die.

“For one long, for one long night, she refused everything.

“In vain I said: ‘My mother, my mother, like you also I shall die.’

“She remained silent and gloomy.

“I took her hand, her hand already frozen. I tried to warm it with my breath: she wished to withdraw her hand.”

In saying these words, the voice of the Bohemian had such an expression of sadness, and the sounds that he drew from his guzla were so melancholy, that Reine and Stephanette silently exchanged glances suffused with tears. The Bohemian continued without perceiving the emotion he had excited:

“It was night.

“And yet a beautiful night Through the open window of our house one saw the starlit sky; the moon covered the plain with silver; one heard no noise.

“Yes, oh, yes! one heard the fevered breathing of my poor mother.

“Suddenly in the distance, far, very far, a light noise sounded.

“It was like the soft and gentle echo of a voice singing in the sky.

“Soon a gentle breeze, burdened with the perfume of the citron-tree, wafted sounds more distinct.

“I was still holding the icy hand of my mother. I felt her tremble.

“This celestial voice approached—approached.

“The chords of a melodious instrument accompanied it, and gave it an inexpressible charm.

“My mother started again; she raised her head; she listened. For the first time in many hours she gave signs of life.

“As the enchanting sounds approached my mother seemed bom again.

“I felt her hand grow warm again; I felt her hand press mine.

“I heard her voice at last; her voice till then so mute.

“‘My child, these songs sink in my soul; they calm me! Tears, oh, tears! Yes, tears at last! I had so much need to weep.’

“And I felt two burning tears fall on my brow.

“‘Oh, my mother, my mother!’ ‘Silence, my child, be silent!’ said she, putting one of her hands upon my mouth, and pointing to the window with the other. ‘Listen to the voice! listen! there it is! there it is!’”

Reine, deeply moved, pressed the hand of Stephanette as she shook her head with a touching expression of pity.

The Bohemian continued:

“The moon of my country shines as the sun of this country.

“In its light slowly passed the young emir, mounted on Azib, his beautiful white horse.

“Azib, gentle as a lamb, courageous as a lion, white as a swan.

“The emir let his reins fall on the neck of Azib. Happy, he sang of a happy love, and accompanied himself on his guzla.

“His songs were not joyous: they were tender; they were melancholy.

“He passed, singing.

“‘Silence, child, silence!’ whispered my mother, pressing my hand convulsively. ‘That voice divine does me so much good!’

“HÉlas! by degrees the voice died away; the emir had passed; the voice was gone; then one heard nothing more,—nothing more; not a sound.

“‘Ah, I fall back in the dreadful horror of my night,’ said my mother. ‘This celestial music seemed to dissipate the darkness. Alas! alas!’ and she wrung her hands in despair.

“Alas! all night she wept.

“The morrow her despair increased; her reason grew feeble. In her delirium she called me a wicked son. She accused me of silencing this voice. If she heard this voice no more, she must die.

“She was, indeed, going to die. For many hours she refused all nourishment. What could I do? What could I do?

“The emir of our tribe was the most powerful of emirs.

“If he raised his djerid ten thousand cavaliers mounted horse.

“His palace was worthy of the sultan, his treasures immense. Alas! how could I dare conceive the thought of saying to him, ‘Come, and by your songs snatch an old and despairing woman from death?’

“And yet that I dared. My mother had perhaps but a few more hours to live. I went to the palace.”

“And the emir?” cried Reine, deeply moved and interested, while Stephanette, not less excited than her mistress, clasped her hands in admiration.

The Bohemian gave the two young girls a glance of indescribable sadness, and said, interrupting this kind of improvising, and laying his instrument on his knees: “‘My mother was a woman,’ said the emir to me, and he came.”

“He came!” exclaimed Reine, with enthusiasm. “Ah, the noble heart!”

“Oh, yes, the most noble of noble hearts,” repeated the Bohemian, with transport; “he deigned, he so grand, he so powerful, to come, for five days, every evening into our poor dwelling. How shall I tell you of his touching, almost filial kindness? Alas, if my mother had not been stricken with a mortal disease, the songs of the emir would have saved her, for the effect they produced on her was wonderful. But she died at last without suffering, in a profound ecstasy. This guzla, it once belonged to the emir; he gave it to me. Thanks to it the last moments of my mother were peaceful,—poor mother!”

A tear glittered a moment in the black eye of the Bohemian; then, as if he wished to drive away these painful memories, he took up his guzla quickly and recited these other stanzas in a proud and excited voice, as he made his sonorous instrument resound:

“The name of the emir is sacred in his tribe; let him but speak and we will die.

“Not one is more brave; not one is more beautiful; not one is more noble.

“He is hardly twenty years old, and his name is already the terror of other tribes.

“His arm is delicate like that of a woman, but it is strong like that of a warrior.

“His face is smiling, is beautiful like that of the spirit who appears in the dreams of young girls; but it is sometimes terrible like that of the god of battles.

“His voice charms and seduces like a magic philter, but sometimes it bursts forth like a clarion.”

In his enthusiasm, the Bohemian approached Reine and said to her, as he opened the medallion set into the neck of the guzla: “See! see if he is not the most beautiful of mortals!”

The young girl looked at the portrait, and uttered a cry of surprise, almost of terror. The portrait was that of the stranger in the rocks of Ollioules, who had saved the life of her father!

At that moment the door of Reine’s drawing-room was opened, and she saw before her HonorÂt de Berrol, followed by Captain Luquin Trinquetaille, who had just arrived from Nice on the tartan, The Holy Terror of the Moors, by the Grace of God.