Her large, dark, lustrous eyes
have in them an expression of apprehension; her delicate lips are half
parted; a sudden flush rises in her soft, olive complexion as she
examines every corner of the garden. Having completed her survey
without discovering any cause for the suspicions she seems to entertain,
she again employs herself over her instrument. Once more she strikes
the chords, and now with a bolder hand. The notes she produces resolve
themselves into a wild, plaintive, irregular melody, alternately rising
and sinking, as if swayed by the fickle influence of a summer wind.
These sounds are soon harmoniously augmented by the young minstrel's
voice, which is calm, still, and mellow, and adapts itself with
exquisite ingenuity to every arbitrary variation in the tone of the
accompaniment. The song that she has chosen is one of the fanciful odes
of the day. Its chief merit to her lies in its alliance to the strange
Eastern air which she heard at her first interview with the senator who
presented her with the lute.
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