As may be imagined we were in no mood for much supper after this. My knees felt very weak under me, and Madame de Termes was trembling all over; but she thanked de Clermont very gracefully, and he made some modest answer with his eyes fixed on me, and I--I could say nothing. We would have retired at once, but de Clermont pressed us to stay, and Madame, with a little smile, agreed, saying, "I am afraid even after all these years I am not quite a soldier's wife." So we lingered yet a little longer and found our nerves come back to us. After that we sat in the garden where the moonlight was full and bright, and the breeze brought us the scent of the roses. Then de Clermont bringing out his lute sang to us. He had a voice such as neither I, nor any one else I knew who had listened to it, had ever heard equalled. So, perhaps, sang his old troubadour ancestors, and the sweet notes had died with the days of chivalry to be born in Raoul de Clermont. The song he chose was one that was perchance written by one of his minstrel forbears, and described in that old tongue that we no longer use, a lover's agony at being separated forever from his mistress. The words were, perhaps, poor, but there was genuine feeling in them, and sung by de Clermont, it might have been the wail of an angel shut out from Paradise. Never did I hear the like--never would I care to hear the like again, and as the last of the glorious notes died away in a liquid stream of ineffable melody, I saw Madame's face buried in her hands, and there was a great sob behind me that came from the broad chest of Lalande, who had stolen up to hear, and was blubbering like a child. Then Madame de Termes rose, and hurried off followed by Lalande, and we were alone, I sitting still with my whole soul full of that wondrous song, and every nerve strung to its highest pitch, whilst de Clermont remained standing, his lute, slung by its silken sash, in the loop of his arm. "Denise!" he said, "you understand, dear?"