He saluted her with a sort of easy respect as he took a sharp and rapid survey of the objects which surrounded her. As Stephanette had remarked, the Singer’s exterior had greatly improved; his slender and well-formed figure looked wonderfully well in the scarlet doublet, the present from the baron; his collar was fastened with the flame-coloured ribbon, a present from Stephanette; he wore wide trousers of coarse white stuff; his dark blue gaiters, embroidered with red wool, reached above his knees. His black hair enframed a thin, sunburnt but intelligent face. He held in his hand a kind of guitar with a neck of ebony expensively inlaid with gold and mother-of-pearl; at its upper end the neck formed a sort of palette, in the middle of which was a small, round plate chased with gold, resembling the lid of a medallion. We emphasise the costliness of this instrument because it seemed very strange that a strolling Bohemian should be its possessor. Stephanette herself was struck with it, and cried: “Why, Singer, I never saw that beautiful guitar before!” These words attracted the attention of Reine, and, as surprised as her maid, she said to the Bohemian: “Really, this is a very expensive instrument for a travelling artisan.” “I am poor, mademoiselle, sometimes I have wanted bread, but ah! I would rather die of hunger than sell this guzla. My arms are weak, but they would become as strong as brass to defend this guzla. They would only take it from me after my death. It is my most precious treasure; I hardly dare to play it. But the rose of Anbiez wishes to hear me; all that I now desire is that my song may be worthy of the instrument and of her who listens to me.” The Bohemian spoke French quite purely, although he had something guttural in his Arabian accent. Reine exchanged a glance of surprise with her attendant, as she heard this florid Oriental speech, which contrasted singularly with the condition of the wanderer. “But this guzla, as you call this instrument, how did you come to possess it?” The Bohemian shook his head sadly, and replied: “That is a sad story, mademoiselle; there are more tears than smiles in it.” “Tell us,--tell us!” exclaimed Reine, deeply interested in the romantic turn the incident had taken. “Relate to us how this guzla came into your hands. You seem to be above your present condition.” The Bohemian uttered a profound sigh, fixed a piercing look on Reine, and struck a few chords which vibrated a long time under the arched roof of the turret. “But tell me the story of this guzla,” said Reine, with the impatience of a young girl. The wanderer, without replying, made a supplicating gesture. He began to sing, accompanying himself with taste, or, rather, playing softly some air of tender melancholy, while, with a sweet and grave tone, he recited the following stanzas. [Illustration: He began to sing ]