Mimo, with his tall, military figure shaking with dry sobs, stood on the other side, and Zara murmured in a tender voice of anguish: "My little one! My Mirko!" She was oblivious in her grief of any other presence--and the dying child opened his eyes and called faintly, "Maman!" Then Mimo saw Tristram by the door, and advanced with his finger on his quivering lips to meet him.
"Ah, sir," he said.

"Alas! you have come too late.

My child is going to God!" And all the manhood in Tristram's heart rose up in pity.

Here was a tragedy too deep for human judgment, too deep for thoughts of vengeance, and without a word he turned and stole from the room.

And as he stumbled down the dark, narrow stairs he heard the sound of a violin as it wailed out the beginning notes of the _Chanson Triste_, and he shivered, as if with cold.
For Mirko had opened his piteous eyes again, and whispered in little gasps: "Papa--play to me the air _Mamam_ loved.