The evening was still, and mild as early autumn, and the plash of oars
passing up and down the river sounded like a part of the music--
"Love in her sunny eyes doth basking play,
Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair,
Love does on both her lips for ever stray,
And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there;
In all her outward parts love's always seen;
But, oh, he never went within."
It was a song of Cowley's, which De Malfort had lately set to music, and to
a melody which Hyacinth especially admired.
"A serenade! Only De Malfort could have thought of such a thing. Lying ill
and alone, he sends me the sweetest token of his regard--my favourite air,
his own setting--the last song I ever heard him sing. And you wonder that I
value so pure, so disinterested a love!" protested Hyacinth to her sister,
in the silence at the end of the song.
"Sing again, sweet boys, sing again!" she cried, snatching a purse from her
pocket, and flinging it with impetuous aim into the boat.
It hit one of the fiddlers on the head, and there was a laugh, and in a
trice the largesse was divided and pocketed.
"They are from his Majesty's choir; I know their voices," said Hyacinth,
"so fresh, and pure.
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