I noticed it was very faintly tinged with amber. I drank it off--it was perfectly tasteless. Once in bed, I seemed to have no power to think any more--my eyes closed readily--the slumber of a year-old child, as Heliobas had said, came upon me with resistless and sudden force, and I remembered no more. CHAPTER VII. ZARA AND PRINCE IVAN. The sun poured brilliantly into my room when I awoke the next morning. I was free from all my customary aches and pains, and a delightful sense of vigour and elasticity pervaded my frame. I rose at once, and, looking at my watch, found to my amazement that it was twelve o'clock in the day! Hastily throwing on my dressing-gown, I rang the bell, and the servant appeared. "Is it actually mid-day?" I asked her. "Why did you not call me?" The girl smiled apologetically. "I did knock at mademoiselle's door, but she gave me no answer. Madame Denise came up also, and entered the room; but seeing mademoiselle in so sound a sleep, she said it was a pity to disturb mademoiselle." Which statement good Madame Denise, toiling upstairs just then with difficulty, she being stout and short of breath, confirmed with many smiling nods of her head. "Breakfast shall be served at the instant," she said, rubbing her fat hands together; "but to disturb you when you slept--ah, Heaven! the sleep of an infant--I could not do it! I should have been wicked!" I thanked her for her care of me; I could have kissed her, she looked so motherly, and kind, and altogether lovable. And I felt so merry and well! She and the servant retired to prepare my coffee, and I proceeded to make my toilette. As I brushed out my hair I heard the sound of a violin. Someone was playing next door. I listened, and recognised a famous Beethoven Concerto. The unseen musician played brilliantly and withal tenderly, both touch and tone reminding me of some beautiful verses in a book of poems I had recently read, called "Love-Letters of a Violinist," in which the poet [FOOTNOTE: Author of the equally beautiful idyl, "Gladys the Singer," included in the new American copyright edition just issued.] talks of his "loved Amati," and says: "I prayed my prayer. I wove into my song Fervour, and joy, and mystery, and the bleak, The wan despair that words could never speak. I prayed as if my spirit did belong To some old master who was wise and strong, Because he lov'd and suffered, and was weak. "I trill'd the notes, and curb'd them to a sigh, And when they falter'd most, I made them leap Fierce from my bow, as from a summer sleep A young she-devil. I was fired thereby To bolder efforts--and a muffled cry Came from the strings as if a saint did weep.