Between them stood the singer.  She was a pale brunette, slight and graceful, and apparently not more than twenty-five years of age.  The somewhat severe oval of her face was relieved by a pair of bright black eyes that seemed to grow larger as she sang.  One hand rested gently on the shoulder of the girl at the piano, and with this she seemed to keep time, pressing gently on the shoulder of the performer to stimulate her zeal.  And that hand was delicious!

A hymn by Palestrina had succeeded the Bach prelude.  It was a quartette, to which two new voices lent their aid.  The old priest laid aside his violoncello, stood up, took off his spectacles, and his deep bass completed the full measure of the melody.

After the quartette followed a few moments of general conversation, during which—­after embracing the child pianist, who immediately left the room—­the songstress walked to the window.  She leaned out as if to breathe the fresh air, and her profile was sharply relieved against the bright light behind her, in which the others formed a group around the priest, who once more donned his spectacles, and drew from his pocket a paper that appeared to be a manuscript.

The lady leaned from the window, gently fanning herself, as she looked now at the sky, now at the dark landscape.  Camors imagined he could distinguish her gentle breathing above the sound of the fan; and leaning eagerly forward for a better view, he caused the leaves to rustle slightly.  She started at the sound, then remained immovable, and the fixed position of her head showed that her gaze was fastened upon the oak in which he was concealed.

He felt the awkwardness of his position, but could not judge whether or not he was visible to her; but, under the danger of her fixed regard, he passed the most painful moments of his life.

She turned into the room and said, in a calm voice, a few words which brought three or four of her friends to the window; and among them Camors recognized the old man with the violin.

The moment was a trying one.  He could do nothing but lie still in his leafy retreat—­silent and immovable as a statue.  The conduct of those at the window went far to reassure him, for their eyes wandered over the gloom with evident uncertainty, convincing him that his presence was only suspected, not discovered.  But they exchanged animated observations, to which the hidden Count lent an attentive ear.  Suddenly a strong voice—­which he recognized as belonging to him of the violin-rose over them all in the pleasing order:  “Loose the dog!”

This was sufficient for Camors.  He was not a coward; he would not have budged an inch before an enraged tiger; but he would have travelled a hundred miles on foot to avoid the shadow of ridicule.  Profiting by the warning and a moment when he seemed unobserved, he slid from the tree, jumped into the next field, and entered the wood at a point somewhat farther down than the spot where he had scaled the hedge.  This done, he resumed his walk with the assured tread of a man who had a right to be there.  He had gone but a few steps, when he heard behind him the wild barking of the dog, which proved his retreat had been opportune.