it was enough to hear that melancholy music; it was enough to glance at the features of the minstrel. His mien was stamped with thoughtfulness,—the eyebrow raised, and his look bent towards earth, as if wishing to draw something from its depths. What might be the subject of his strains? Perchance, with wandering thought, he pursued his youth on the ocean of the past. And where was his soul? In the land of remembrance.
But his hand, in its musical rapture, never drew lively sounds from the lute, and his lips seemed to dread an innocent smile, as a deadly sin; his fingers touched all the chords but one,—the chord of joy;—and the listener found in those strains an echo to each of his feelings, but that of hope.
Sometimes a few of the brothers, coming suddenly upon him, wondered at his surprising change. Conrad, aroused from his dreams, cast, with angry looks, the lute aside, and, instead of songs, muttered profane words. At other times be exchanged whispers with
