ne evening a strange circumstance occurred which startled and deeply
impressed me. Prince Ivan had dined with us; he was in extraordinarily
high spirits--his gaiety was almost boisterous, and his face was deeply
flushed. Zara glanced at him half indignantly more than once when his
laughter became unusually uproarious, and I saw that Heliobas watched
him closely and half-inquiringly, as if he thought there was something
amiss.

The Prince, however, heedless of his host's observant eye, tossed off
glass after glass of wine, and talked incessantly. After dinner, when
we all assembled in the drawing-room, he seated himself at the piano
without being asked, and sang several songs. Whether he were influenced
by drink or strong excitement, his voice at any rate showed no sign of
weakness or deterioration. Never had I heard him sing so magnificently.
He seemed possessed not by an angel but by a demon of song. It was
impossible not to listen to him, and while listening, equally
impossible not to admire him. Even Zara, who was generally indifferent
to his music, became, on this particular night, fascinated into a sort
of dreamy attention. He perceived this, and suddenly addressed himself
to her in softened tones which bore no trace of their previous loudness.

"Madame, you honour me to-night by listening to my poor efforts. It is
seldom I am thus rewarded!"

Zara flushed deeply, and then grew very pale.

"Indeed, Prince," she answered quietly, "you mistake me. I always
listen with pleasure to your singing--to-night, perhaps, my mood is
more fitted to music than is usual with me, and thus I may appear to
you to be more attentive. But your voice always delights me as it must
delight everybody who hears it."

"While you are in a musical mood then," returned Prince Ivan, "let me
sing you an English song--one of the loveliest ever penned. I have set
it to music myself, as such words are not of the kind to suit ordinary
composers or publishers; they are too much in earnest, too passionate,
too full of real human love and sorrow. The songs that suit modern
drawing-rooms and concert-halls, as a rule, are those that are full of
sham sentiment--a real, strong, throbbing HEART pulsing through a song
is too terribly exciting for lackadaisical society. Listen!" And,
playing a dreamy, murmuring prelude like the sound of a brook flowing
through a hollow cavern, he sang Swinburne's "Leave-Taking," surely one
of the saddest and most beautifu