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The Were-Wolf
voice gave the verses, and, as the chorus was taken up, he claimed her hands, and, even through the easy grip, felt, as he desired, the strength that was latent, and the vigour that quickened the very fingertips, as the song fired her, and her voice was caught out of her by the rhythmic swell, and rang clear on the top of the closing surge.
Afterwards she sang alone. For contrast, or in the pride of swaying moods by her voice, she chose a mournful song that drifted along in a minor chant, sad as a wind that dirges:
"Oh, let me go!
Around spin wreaths of snow;
The dark earth sleeps below.
Around spin wreaths of snow;
The dark earth sleeps below.
Far up the plain
Moans on a voice of pain:
'Where shall my babe be lain?'
Moans on a voice of pain:
'Where shall my babe be lain?'
In my white breast
Lay the sweet life to rest!
Lay, where it can lie best!
Lay the sweet life to rest!
Lay, where it can lie best!
'Hush! hush its cries!
Dense night is on the skies:
Two stars are in thine eyes.'
Dense night is on the skies:
Two stars are in thine eyes.'
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