Out of the long black shadows of the solitary trees of the park, and through low yellow moonlight, they passed suddenly into the muffed ways of the wood.  Mr. Pericles was ineffably provoking.  He had come for gallantry’s sake, and was not to be rallied, and would echo every question in a roar, and there was no drawing of the man out at all.  He knocked against branches, and tripped over stumps, and ejaculated with energy; but though he gave no heed or help to his fair associate, she thought not the worse of him, so heroic can women be toward any creature that will permit himself to be clothed by a mystery.  At times the party hung still, fancying the voice aloft, and then, after listening to the unrelieved stillness, they laughed, and trod the stiff dry ferns and soft mosses once more.  At last they came to a decided halt, when the proposition to return caused Adela to come up to Mr. Pericles and say to him, “Now, you must confess!  You have prohibited her from singing to-night so that we may continue to be mystified.  I call this quite shameful of you!”

And even as Mr. Pericles was protesting that he was the most mystified of the company, his neck lengthened, and his head went round, and his ear was turned to the sky, while he breathed an elaborate “Ah!” And sure enough that was the voice of the woods, cleaving the night air, not distant.  A sleepy fire of early moonlight hung through the dusky fir-branches.  The voice had the woods to itself, and seemed to fill them and soar over them, it was so full and rich, so light and sweet.  And now, to add to the marvel, they heard a harp accompaniment, the strings being faintly touched, but with firm fingers.  A woman’s voice:  on that could be no dispute.  Tell me, what opens heaven more flamingly to heart and mind, than the voice of a woman, pouring clear accordant notes to the blue night sky, that grows light blue to the moon?  There was no flourish in her singing.  All the notes were firm, and rounded, and sovereignly distinct.  She seemed to have caught the ear of Night, and sang confident of her charm.  It was a grand old Italian air, requiring severity of tone and power.  Now into great mournful hollows the voice sank steadfastly.  One soft sweep of the strings succeeded a deep final note, and the hearers breathed freely.

“Stradella!” said the Greek, folding his arms.

The ladies were too deeply impressed to pursue their play with him.  Real emotions at once set aside the semi-credence they had given to their own suggestions.

“Hush! she will sing again,” whispered Adela.  “It is the most delicious contralto.”  Murmurs of objection to the voice being characterized at all by any technical word, or even for a human quality, were heard.

“Let me find zis woman!” cried the prose enthusiast Mr. Pericles, imperiously, with his bearskin thrown back on his shoulders, and forth they stepped, following him.