"No, no! Later, when I can without danger. But the light of this lamp hurts my eyes,--a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and Cecily extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment. From the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture that Jacques Ferrand perceived. In the midst of the luminous circle formed by the flickering blaze on the fire Cecily, in a position full of softness and _abandonnement_, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious preludes. The fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared thus in strong relief. To complete the tableau, the reader must call to mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which tremble on the ceiling and the walls. The storm without increased, and roared loudly. Whilst she preludised on her guitar, Cecily fixed her eyes immovably on Jacques Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her. "Now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. We do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and I am sure, master, it will please you." And Cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. Some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. This was Cecily's song: "Flowers--still flowers, everywhere. My lover is coming--my hope of happiness unnerves me. Let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade. My lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers. The brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed. Come--come--come--come, love! Come--come--come!" These words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great power, vibrations full of harmony. The impassioned look of Cecily, her half closed, humid eyes fastened on Jacques Ferrand, were full of the expression of expectation. Words of love, delicious music, together conspired at the moment to bereave Jacques Ferrand of his reason; and, half frenzied, he exclaimed: "Mercy, Cecily, mercy! You will drive me distracted! Oh, be silent, or I die! Oh, that I were mad!" "Listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative: