concentrated in her eyes, which were deep and of a dark blue.
The impression she made upon a beholder was very complex. And it
would have been difficult to say whether the calm which pervaded
every manifestation of her beauty was the result of conscious
control or the most perfect ease.

She took down the guzla and handed it to Boris, who struck some
plaintive preliminary chords.

"What shall I sing?" she inquired, raising her father's hand from
the back of the sofa where he rested and kissing it with filial
tenderness.

"Improvise," said the general. "Improvise in French, for the sake
of our guest."

"Oh, yes," cried Boris; "improvise as you did the other evening."

He immediately struck a minor chord.

Natacha looked fondly at her father as she sang:

"When the moment comes that parts us at the close of day,
when the Angel of Sleep covers you with azure wings;
"Oh, may your eyes rest from so many tears, and your oppressed
heart have calm;
"In each moment that we have together, Father dear, let our
souls feel harmony sweet and mystical;
"And when your thoughts may have flown to other worlds, oh, may
my image, at least, nestle within your sleeping eyes."