“A little rose on a young rose-tree
     Shed all its crimson blood for me,
     Drop by drop on the dewy grass,
     Its petals fell, and its life did pass;
     Oh little rose on the young rose-tree,
     Why did you shed your blood for me?

    “A nightingale in a tall pine-tree
     Broke its heart in a song for me,
     Singing, with moonbeams around it spread,
     It fluttered, and fell at my threshold, dead;—­
     Oh nightingale in the tall pine-tree,
     Why did you break your heart for me?

    “A lover of ladies, bold and free,
     Challenged the world to a fight for me,
     But I scorn’d his love in a foolish pride,
     And, sword in hand, he fighting died! 
     Oh lover of ladies, bold and free,
     Why did you lose your life for me?”

And again, with plaintive insistence, the last two lines were repeated, ringing out on the deep stillness of the summer night—­

    “Oh lover of ladies, told and free,
     Why did you lose yowr life for me?”

The song ceased with a clash of chords.  It was followed by a subdued clapping of hands,—­a pause of silence—­and then a renewed murmur of conversation.  Walden looked up as if suddenly startled from a reverie, and resumed his quick pace across the courtyard,—­and Maryllia, seeing him go, advanced a little more into the gleaming moonlight to follow him with her eyes till he should quite disappear.

“Upon my word, a very quaint little comedy!” said a coldly mocking voice behind her—­“A modern Juliet gazing pathetically after the retiring form of a somewhat elderly clerical Romeo!  Let me congratulate you, Miss Maryllia, on your newest and most brilliant achievement,—­the conquest of a country parson!  It is quite worthy of you!”

And turning, she confronted Lord Roxmouth.

XXIV

For a moment they looked at each other.  The smile on Roxmouth’s face widened.

“Come, come, Maryllia!” he said, easily—­“Don’t be foolish!  The airs of a tragedy queen do not suit you.  I assure you I haven’t the least objection to your amusing yourself with a parson, if you like!  The conversation in the picture-gallery just now was quite idyllic—­all about a cigarette and Psyche!  Really it was most absurd!—­and the little sermon of the enamoured clergyman to his pretty penitent was as unique as it was priggish.  I’m sure you must have been vastly entertained!  And the final allusion he made to his age—­that was a masterstroke of pathos!—­or bathos?  Which?  Du sublime au ridicule il n’y’a qu’un pas, Madame!”

Her eyes were fixed unswervingly upon him.

“So you listened!” she said.