Then Sheila and he went into the drawing-room by themselves, and while she took a seat near the brightly-lit fire-place, he opened the piano at once and sat down.  He turned up his cuffs, he took a look at the pedals, he threw back his head, shaking his long brown hair; and then, with a crash like thunder, his two hands struck the keys.  He had forgotten all about that sonata:  it was a fantasia of his own, based on the airs in Der Freischuetz, that he played; and as he played Sheila’s poor little piano suffered somewhat.  Never before had it been so battered about, and she wished the small chamber were a great hall, to temper the voluminous noise of this opening passage.  But presently the music softened.  The white, lithe fingers ran lightly over the keys, so that the notes seemed to ripple out like the prattling of a stream, and then again some stately and majestic air or some joyous burst of song would break upon this light accompaniment, and lead up to another roar and rumble of noise.  It was a very fine performance, doubtless, but what Sheila remarked most was the enthusiasm of the lad.  She was to see more of that.

“Now,” he said, “that is nothing.  It is to get one’s fingers accustomed to the keys you play anything that is loud and rapid.  But if you please, madame, shall I sing you something?”

“Yes, do,” said Sheila.

“I will sing for you a little German song which I believe Jenny Lind used to sing, but I never heard her sing.  You know German?”

“Very little indeed.”

“This is only the cry of some one who is far away about his sweetheart.  It is very simple, both in the words and the music.”

And he began to sing, in a voice so rich, so tender and expressive that Sheila sat amazed and bewildered to hear him.  Where had this boy caught such a trick of passion, or was it really a trick that threw into his voice all the pathos of a strong man’s love and grief?  He had a powerful baritone, of unusual compass and rare sweetness; but it was not the finely-trained art of his singing, but the passionate abandonment of it, that thrilled Sheila, and indeed brought tears to her eyes.  How had this mere lad learned all the yearning and despair of love, that he sang,

Dir bebt die Brust,
Dir schlaegt dies Herz,
Du meine Lust! 
O du, mein Schmerz! 
Nur an den Winden, den Sternen der Hoeh,
Muss ich verkuenden mein suesses Weh!—­

as though his heart were breaking?  When he had finished he paused for a moment or two before leaving the piano, and then he came over to where Sheila sat.  She fancied there was a strange look on his face, as of one who had been really experiencing the wild emotions of which he sang; but he said, in his ordinary careful way of speaking, “Madame, I am sorry I cannot translate the words for you into English.  They are too simple; and they have, what is common in many German songs, a mingling of the pleasure and the sadness of being in love that would not read natural perhaps in English.  When he says to her that she is his greatest delight and also his greatest grief, it is quite right in the German, but not in the English.”