"She came," he said, "searching for me. I was blind then; they had been careless with their blasting--my eyes were gone, my hair white, my face scarred. She did not know me. Her voice was divine! Her name has been in the mouths of all men. She came and sang at Christmas, to the prisoners, the glorious hymns of her church, and she sang to me. It was a song that none there knew but me--my song! Had she watched my face, then, she would have known; but how could she suspect me, the blind, the scarred, the gray? She passed out forever. And I, harmless, helpless, soon followed--pardoned. I knew her name; I made my way to Paris to be near that voice; and the years passed; I was poor and blind. It cost money to hear her." Trembling with emotion, Edward whispered: "Her name?" Benoni shook his head and slowly extended his withered arms. The woolen wristlets had been removed, there were the white scars, the marks of the convict's long-worn irons. "I have forgiven her; I will not bring her disgrace." "Cambia?" said Edward, unconsciously. There was a loud cry; the old man half-rose and sank back, baffled by his weakness. "Hush! Hush!" he gasped; "it is my secret; swear to me you will keep it; swear to me, swear!" "I swear it, Benoni, I swear it." The old man seemed to have fallen asleep; it was a stupor. "She came," he said, "years ago and offered me gold. It was to be the last effort of her life. She could not believe but that her husband was in Paris and might be found. She believed the song would find him. I had been suggested to her because my music and figure were known to all the boulevards. I was blind and could never know her. But I knew her voice. "She went, veiled to avoid recognition; she stood by me at a certain place on the boulevard where people gather in the evening and sang. What a song. The streets were blocked, and men, I am told, uncovered before the sacred purity of that voice, and when all were there who could hear she sang our song; while I, weeping, played the accompaniment, ay, as no man living or dead could have played it. Always in the lines-- "Oceans may roll between Thy home and thee." --her voice gave way. They called it art. "Well, I thought, one day I will tell; it was always the next day, but I knew, as she sang, in her mind must have arisen the picture of that husband standing by her side--ah, my God, I could not, I could not; blind, scarred, a felon, I could not; I was dead! It was bitter! "And then she came to me and said: 'Good Benoni, your heart is true and tender; I thank you; I have wealth and plenty; here is gold, take it in memory of a broken heart you have soothed.' I said: "'The voice of that woman, her song, are better than gold. I have them.' I went and stood in the door as she, weeping, passed out. She lifted her veil and touched the forehead of the old musician with her lips, and then--I hardly knew! I was lying on the floor when Annette came to bring my tea."