The deep melancholy of the music and the quivering pathos of the deep baritone voice were so affecting that it was almost a relief when the song ceased.  I had been looking out of the window at the fantastic patterns of the moonlight on the garden walk, but now I turned to see in Zara’s face her appreciation of what we had just heard.  To my surprise she had left the room.  Heliobas reclined in his easy-chair, glancing up and down the columns of the Figaro; and the Prince still sat at the piano, moving his fingers idly up and down the keys without playing.  The little page entered with a letter on a silver salver.  It was for his master.  Heliobas read it quickly, and rose, saying: 

“I must leave you to entertain yourselves for ten minutes while I answer this letter.  Will you excuse me?” and with the ever-courteous salute to us which was part of his manner, he left the room.

I still remained at the window.  Prince Ivan still dumbly played the piano.  There were a few minutes of absolute silence.  Then the Prince hastily got up, shut the piano, and approached me.

“Do you know where Zara is?” he demanded in a low, fierce tone.

I looked at him in surprise and a little alarm—­he spoke with so much suppressed anger, and his eyes glittered so strangely.

“No,” I answered frankly.  “I never saw her leave the room.”

“I did,” he said.  “She slipped out like a ghost, or a witch, or an angel, while I was singing the last verse of Swinburne’s song.  Do you know Swinburne, mademoiselle?”

“No,” I replied, wondering at his manner more and more.  “I only know him, as you do, to be a poet.”

“Poet, madman, or lover—­all three should be one and the same thing,” muttered the Prince, clenching and unclenching that strong right hand of his on which sparkled a diamond like a star.  “I have often wondered if poets feel what they write—­whether Swinburne, for instance, ever felt the weight of a dead cold thing within him here,” slightly touching the region of his heart, “and realized that he had to drag that corpse of unburied love with him everywhere—­ even to the grave, and beyond—­O God!—­beyond the grave!” I touched him gently on the arm.  I was full of pity for him—­his despair was so bitter and keen.

“Prince Ivan,” I said, “you are excited and overwrought.  Zara meant no slight to you in leaving the room before your song was finished.  I am quite sure of that.  She is kindness itself—­her nature is all sweetness and gentleness.  She would not willingly offend you—­”

“Offend me!” he exclaimed; “she could not offend me if she tried.  She could tread upon me, stab me, slay me, but never offend me.  I see you are sorry for me—­and I thank you.  I kiss your hand for your gentle pity, mademoiselle.”

And he did so, with a knightly grace that became him well.  I thought his momentary anger was passing, but I was mistaken.  Suddenly he raised his arm with a fierce gesture, and exclaimed: