Would it not suffice to keep him from going?
She would try; she would play and sing as she had never done before; sing till his heart was soft, play till his feet had no strength to wander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon from this instrument of strings and wood.
So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to time letting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemed by nature to fall from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey fall drop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower.

Now long did she play and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs?
They never knew.

The moon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed away gradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight.

Now only the stars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, and on, and on.

The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, "where all day long the noise of battle rolled"; it rose shrill and high, and in it rang the scream of the Valkyries preparing the feast of Odin.
It was low, and sad, and tender, the voice of women mourning for their dead.