So Catrina did not find out that he knew nothing whatever of music.

He watched the plain face as the music rose and fell, himself impervious to its transcendent tones.

With practised cunning he waited until Catrina was almost intoxicated with music--an intoxication to which all great musicians are liable.
"Ah!" he said.

"I envy you your power.

With music like that one can almost imagine that life is what one would wish it to be." She did not answer, but she wandered off into another air--a slumber song.
"The Schlummerlied," said De Chauxville softly.