She gave no answer, but once more made pretence to read, and the while she watched me.

I took counsel with myself. How should I do the hateful deed? If I flung myself upon her now she would see me and scream and struggle. Nay, I must wait a chance.

“The auguries are favourable, then, Harmachis?” she said at length, though this she must have guessed.

“Yes, O Queen,” I answered.

“It is well,” and she cast the writing on the marble. “The ships shall sail. For, good or bad, I am weary of weighing chances.”

“This is a heavy matter, O Queen,” I said. “I had wished to show upon what circumstance I base my forecast.”

“Nay, not so, Harmachis; I have wearied of the ways of stars. Thou hast prophesied; that is enough for me; for, doubtless, being honest, thou hast written honestly. Therefore, save thou thy reasons and we’ll be merry. What shall we do? I could dance to thee—there are none who can dance so well!—but it would scarce be queenly. Nay, I have it. I will sing.” And, leaning forward, she raised herself, and, bending the harp towards her, struck some wandering chords. Then her low voice broke out in perfect and most sweet song.

And thus she sang:

     “Night on the sea, and night upon the sky,

     And music in our hearts, we floated there,

     Lulled by the low sea voices, thou and I,

     And the wind’s kisses in my cloudy hair:

     And thou didst gaze on me and call me fair—

     Enfolded by the starry robe of night—

     And then thy singing thrilled upon the air,

     Voice of the heart’s desire and Love’s delight.

     ‘Adrift, with starlit skies above,

     With starlit seas below,

     We move with all the suns that move,

     With all the seas that flow;

     For bond or free, Earth, Sky, and Sea,

     Wheel with one circling will,

     And thy heart drifteth on to me,

     And only time stands still.

     Between two shores of Death we drift,

     Behind are things forgot:

     Before the tide is driving swift

     To lands beholden not.

     Above, the sky is far and cold;

     Below, the moaning sea

     Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old,

     But, oh, Love! kiss thou me.

     Ah, lonely are the ocean ways,

     And dangerous the deep,

     And frail the fairy barque that strays

     Above the seas asleep!

     Ah, toil no more at sail nor oar,

     We drift, or bond or free;

     On yon far shore the breakers roar,

     But, oh, Love! kiss thou me.’

     “And ever as thou sangest I drew near,

     Then sudden silence heard our hearts that beat,

     For now there was an end of doubt and fear,

     Now passion filled my soul and led my feet;

     Then silent didst thou rise thy love to meet,

     Who, sinking on thy breast, knew naught but thee,

     And in the happy night I kissed thee, Sweet;

     Ah, Sweet! between the starlight and the sea.”

The last echoes of her rich notes floated down the chamber, and slowly died away; but in my heart they rolled on and on. I have heard among the women-singers at Abouthis voices more perfect than the voice of Cleopatra, but never have I heard one so thrilling or so sweet with passion’s honey-notes. And indeed it was not the voice alone, it was the perfumed chamber in which was set all that could move the sense; it was the passion of the thought and words, and the surpassing grace and loveliness of that most royal woman who sang them. For, as she sang, I seemed to think that we twain were indeed floating alone with the night, upon the starlit summer sea. And when she ceased to touch the harp, and, rising, suddenly stretched out her arms towards me, and with the last low notes of song yet quivering upon her lips, let fall the wonder of her eyes upon my eyes, she almost drew me to her. But I remembered, and would not.

“Hast thou, then, no word of thanks for my poor singing, Harmachis?” she said at length.