The eagle disappeared in the ether, and the soldier admired her again, recalled by the panther's evident displeasure, her rounded flanks, and the perfect grace of her attitude. There was youth and grace in her form. The blonde fur of her robe shaded, with delicate gradations, to the dead-white tones of her furry thighs; the vivid sunshine brought out in its fulness the brilliancy of this living gold and its variegated brown spots with indescribable lustre. The Provencal and the panther looked at each other with a look pregnant with meaning. She trembled with delight (the coquettish creature) when she felt her friend scratch the strong bones of her skull with his nails. Her eyes glittered like lightning-flashes--then she closed them tightly. "She has a soul!" cried he, looking at the stillness of this queen of the sands, golden like them, white as their waving light, solitary and burning as themselves. (Here the narrative breaks off somewhat abruptly and continues in the first person--that of the soldier.) "Suddenly she turned on me in a fury, seizing my thigh with her sharp teeth, and yet (I thought of this afterwards) not cruelly. I imagined that she intended devouring me, and I plunged my poniard in her throat. She rolled over with a cry that rent my soul; she looked at me in her death-struggle, but without anger. I would have given the whole world--my cross, which I had not yet gained, all, everything--to restore her life to her. It was as if I had assassinated a real human being, a friend. When the soldiers who had seen my flag came to my rescue they found me in tears. "Ah! well, monsieur, I went through the wars in Germany, Spain, Russia, and France; I have marched my carcass well-nigh the world over, but I have seen nothing comparable to the desert." --HONORE DE BALZAC (adapted). [Footnote: Note the detailed description. Does it add to the reality of the scene? Does the author succeed in making the panther appeal to our sympathy? Does the story seem plausible or merely fantastic? Where do you find surprises in the story that add to its interest?] FOR THOSE WHO LOVE MUSIC I had engaged him by the year. Twice a week he came and went through his whole repertoire, and lately, out of sympathy for me, he would play the _Miserere_ of the _Trovatore_, [Footnote: Miserere of the Trovatore. Trovatore is an opera by Verdi.] which was his show piece, twice over. He stood there in the middle of the street looking steadfastly up at my windows while he played, and when he had finished he would take off his hat with an "Addio, Signor!" [Footnote: Addio Signer: "Good-by, Sir."]