But he paid no attention. Again she called. She entreated, then commanded. Still he paid no attention. And he walked so fast that she stopped and stood still in helpless terror. She could only guess at what this humiliating misadventure might signify to the other sisters. On second thought she followed, but with the courage of despair. The catastrophe was at hand, and she would face it. As for Cyrus, he heard her not. He heard only the song. He heard only the woman singing--the voice and the song that had come to him beneath the stars, at Longfields! At last he stopped. And when he stopped he was standing upon a stone terrace, where high arched windows reached the floor, their heavy casements now wide open. There he stood, and listened. Although a lover of music, and keenly sensitive to its charm, this prayer affected him beyond any other song. Its pathos, with the divine voice that had thrilled the world, reached deeper than his emotions. Into his very soul it sank. It seemed to open the doors of memory--the memory of things long forgotten; things almost of another life. Under a spell he listened, and the spell was intensified by the scene about him,--an enchanted garden high above the world. Against the gold and crimson in the West stood the statues at the garden's edge, their purple shadows reaching almost to the terrace. With the warm, soft light that enveloped all things came a peace and a beauty that were more of paradise than of earth. And, as if to complete the illusion of the upper realms, the voice of the singer seemed to lift him yet further from the world of common things. Between this voice and his spiritual self came a new born harmony. It came to him as a message between two hearts, wafted across a gulf of years. The message it brought was intimate, for him alone. To the voice itself, a tendril of love, all the chords of his own heart were vibrating. Some mysterious power reawakened elusive but imperishable bonds between itself and him. He closed his eyes, shut out the world about him, and his soul and the soul of the singer were one. [Illustration] XVI THE SOUL OF A SONG Within, at one side of the room, a group of forty sisters, more or less, sat listening to the song. The room was spacious. Against its white walls hung various paintings by old masters. The further wall, facing the western windows, was partly covered by an enormous tapestry representing Esther and her handmaidens before King Ahasuerus. The king was on a throne, amid the splendors of his court. Now, at this hour, its colors were all aglow at the touch of the sinking sun. Between the three long windows stood growing plants in massive pots of Siena marble. Across the room, facing the sisters, stood Madame Francesca; and, not far away, the accompanist with her harp.