enthusiastically, and almost as if soliloquising, about the scene.

It was a deep-strung voice, that would have been masculine if it had
been the least harsh; but it was not--it was only strong and large and
smooth, a woman's voice with the gift of resonance that lends interest
where there might otherwise seem to be none. There is a certain kind of
voice in woman that seems to vibrate in a way especially its own.
Whether it be that under certain conditions of the vocal organs
harmonic sounds are produced as they may be upon a stringed instrument
or upon an organ pipe; or whether, again, the secret lies deeper,
depending on the subtile folding and unfolding of new-shaped waves of
sound to which our ordinary ears are not used--who can tell? And yet
there are voices that from the first produce upon us a strange
impression unlike anything else in the world. Not that we necessarily
become interested in the possessor of the voice, who may remain for ever
utterly indifferent to us, for the magic lies in the tone merely, which
seems to have a power of perpetuating itself and rebounding among the
echoes of our recollections. Barely, very rarely, singers possess it,
and even though their powers be limited there comes a strange thrill
into their singing which fixes it indelibly on the memory.

Such a voice it was that Claudius heard as he lay on his ledge of
masonry some ten feet below, and listened to the poetic flow of the
strange lady's thoughts on Heidelberg and the scene at her feet. He did
not move, for he was sure she had not seen him; and he supposed she
would go away in a few minutes. He was destined to be seen, however. She
stopped talking, and was apparently lost in thought; but in a moment
there was a small cry.

"O mon Dieu!" and a dainty lace-covered parasol fell over the edge, and,