"In days of old, when knights were bold, And barons held their sway, A warrior bold, with spurs of gold, Sung merrily his lay: 'My love is young and fair, My love hath golden hair, And eyes so bright and heart so true That none with her compare; So what care I, tho' death be nigh, I'll live for love or die!' "So this brave knight, in armor bright, Went gayly to the fray; He fought the fight, but ere the night His soul had passed away. The plighted ring he wore Was crushed and wet with gore; Yet ere he died he bravely cried: 'I've kept the vow I swore; So what care I, tho' death be nigh, I've fought for love, and die-- For love I die!'" The girl's beautiful eyes looked at the singer, dark and grave with the strange emotions swelling at her heart. She had heard Mme. Lorraine and the men from the Jockey Club sing their best, but it had not affected her like this. A strange, sweet awe stole over her, mixed with a buoyancy and lightness that was thrilling and yet solemn. With the strange, new sensation there came to her a sudden memory of the chapel at Le Bon Berger, and the soft, murmuring voices of the nuns at prayer. She felt like praying. He looked at her curiously, and she said, with child-like directness: "I can not sing, but the nuns at the convent taught me how to pray. I will pray to the good God, and perhaps He will hear me and save us." The next minute she had thrown herself down by a chair, bowed her golden head on her hands, and a low, soft murmur of prayer filled the room. He hesitated a moment, then went and knelt down by her side, and his deeper, stronger voice filled the room with a strong, manly petition for help and pity. Then he did not feel like singing again for awhile, so sweet and deep an awe pervaded his mind. Marie sat opposite, her tiny hands folded in her lap, a lovely seriousness on her piquant face. By and by he sung again, but this time it was one of the solemn chants, such as might be heard in the choirs of the old cathedrals. The day wore on like this, and the night fell again, with no sign that the persistent singing had attracted any attention from the outer world. Sadly enough, and with many grim forebodings, Van Zandt wheeled his sofa again into the narrow passage for his night's rest. As he bid her good-night, Marie said, sadly: "The oil is getting low in the lamp. I will extinguish it to-night if you have a match to light it in the morning."