Although it lacked rhythm and rhyme, the language had a certain strange charm; he rendered in a sort of recitative the words: “Far is the country where I was born; the sands of the desert surround it like an arid sea. “I lived there with my mother: she was poor, she was old, she was blind. “I loved my mother, as the unhappy love those who love them. “My mother was sad, sad, very sad, after she had lost her sight. “I went into the valley to look for flowers. “She tried to console herself for not seeing their smiling faces by inhaling their perfume. “The voice of a son is always sweet to the ear of a mother. “I spoke to her; sometimes she smiled. “But never to see! never to see! that filled her with sorrow. “She sank by degrees into a mute despair. “Before sinking into this despair, leaning on my arm, she went out; she loved to go at set of sun and sit under the orange-trees in the garden of the young and brave emir of our tribe. “The gentle warmth of the sun revived my mother. “She loved to listen to the murmur of the cascades, which seemed to sing as they fell into the basin of marble. “One day, when she lamented more bitterly than ever the loss of her sight, she refused to go out. “I prayed her; I wept; she was inflexible. “Seated in the most solitary corner of our dwelling, her venerable head wrapped in her black mantle, she remained motionless. “She no longer desired to eat; she wished to die. “For one long, for one long night, she refused everything. “In vain I said: ‘My mother, my mother, like you also I shall die.’ “She remained silent and gloomy. “I took her hand, her hand already frozen. I tried to warm it with my breath: she wished to withdraw her hand.” In saying these words, the voice of the Bohemian had such an expression of sadness, and the sounds that he drew from his guzla were so melancholy, that Reine and Stephanette silently exchanged glances suffused with tears. The Bohemian continued without perceiving the emotion he had excited: “It was night. “And yet a beautiful night Through the open window of our house one saw the starlit sky; the moon covered the plain with silver; one heard no noise. “Yes, oh, yes! one heard the fevered breathing of my poor mother. “Suddenly in the distance, far, very far, a light noise sounded. “It was like the soft and gentle echo of a voice singing in the sky. “Soon a gentle breeze, burdened with the perfume of the citron-tree, wafted sounds more distinct. “I was still holding the icy hand of my mother. I felt her tremble. “This celestial voice approached--approached. “The chords of a melodious instrument accompanied it, and gave it an inexpressible charm. “My mother started again; she raised her head; she listened. For the first time in many hours she gave signs of life. “As the enchanting sounds approached my mother seemed bom again. “I felt her hand grow warm again; I felt her hand press mine. “I heard her voice at last; her voice till then so mute.