Half way up the hill, moving very slowly, as if the
horses were jaded and tired, was a traveling carriage, which both
Edith and Victor recognized at once as belonging to Arthur St.
Claire.
"Let's overtake them," said Edith, and chirruping to Bedouin, she
was soon so near to the carriage that her quick ear caught the
sound of a low, sweet voice singing a German air, with which she
herself had always been familiar, though when she first learned it
she could not tell.
It was one of those old songs which Rachel had called weird and
wild, and now, as she listened to the plaintive tones, they
thrilled on every nerve with a strange power as if it were a
requiem sung by the dead over their own buried hopes. Nearer and
nearer Bedouin pressed to the slowly moving vehicle, until at last
she was nearly even with it.
"Look, Miss Edith!" and Victor grasped her bridle rein, directing
her attention to the arms folded upon the window and the girlish
head resting upon the arms, in the attitude of a weary child.
One little ringless, blue-veined hand was plainly discernible in
the bright moonlight, and Edith thought how small and white and
delicate it was.
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