"Listen not to the strange voice which thou dost not understand. It is soft but deceptive. It would extinguish the sun over your head; it would dry up the water under your feet; it would wither the flowers in the fields and shatter the wings of the birds among the clouds; it would cause cold, fear and death to descend upon thee, and would exhaust forever the source of the divine harmonies I sing to thee." Lauriane no longer saw D'Alvimar. Lost in a delicious reverie, she did not see Lucilio. She was transported into the past, and, thinking of Charlotte d'Albret, she said to herself: "No, no, I will never listen to the voice of the demon!--My friend," she said aloud, rising, when the musician stopped, "you have done me an immense amount of good, and I thank you. I have nothing to give you which can pay for the noble thoughts which you are able to suggest to us; that is why I beg you to accept these fragrant violets, which are the emblem of your modesty." She had refused to give D'Alvimar the violets, and she ostentatiously gave them to the poor musician, before his face. D'Alvimar smiled triumphantly, thinking that she meant to incite him by a challenge more stimulating than an avowal. But such was not Lauriane's thought, for, making a pretence of fastening the flowers in Lucilio's hat, she said to him under her breath: "Master Giovellino, I ask you to be a father to me, and not to stir from my side until I tell you to." Thanks to his keen Italian penetration, Lucilio grasped her meaning. "Yes, yes, I understand, rely on me!" his expressive eyes replied. And he seated himself on the huge roots of the yew, at a respectful distance, like a servant awaiting such orders as may be given him, but near enough to make it impossible for D'Alvimar to say a word which he did not hear. D'Alvimar divined the whole plan. She was afraid of him; that was still better! He held the bagpiper in such utter contempt that he began anew to pay court to his hostess before him as if he were a log of wood. But his dangerous magnetism lost all its virtue. It seemed to Lauriane that the presence of a calm, virtuous man like Lucilio was an antidote. She would have blushed to display any vanity before him. She felt that his eyes were upon her, and that feeling was a protection. She saw that the Spaniard was piqued, and was gradually growing angry. She tried her strength by resisting him. He wanted her to dismiss that interloper, and he told her so, designedly, in a tone loud enough to be overheard by him. Lauriane flatly refused, saying that she desired more music. Lucilio at once began to inflate his bagpipe. D'Alvimar put his hand to his breast, drew a very sharp Spanish knife, and, having removed it from its sheath, began to play with it as if to keep himself in countenance; sometimes pretending to write with the point on the old yew, sometimes to hurl it at something as if to show his dexterity. Lauriane did not understand his threat.