and the first rays of the sun, by twilight and dawn.

From the height of the veranda one of the most beautiful bits of
the isles lay in view, and the hour was so lovely that its charm
thrilled these people, of whom several, as Thaddeus, were still
close to nature. It was he, first, who called to Natacha:

"Natacha! Natacha! Sing us your 'Soir des Iles.'"

Natacha's voice floated out upon the peace of the islands under the
dim arched sky, light and clear as a night rose, and the guzla of
Boris accompanied it. Natacha sang:

"This is the night of the Isles - at the north of the world.
The sky presses in its stainless arms the bosom of earth,
Night kisses the rose that dawn gave to the twilight.
And the night air is sweet and fresh from across the shivering gulf,
Like the breath of young girls from the world still farther north.
Beneath the two lighted horizons, sinking and rising at once,
The sun rolls rebounding from the gods at the north of the world.
In this moment, beloved, when in the clear shadows of this
rose-stained evening I am here alone with you,
Respond, respond with a heart less timid to the holy, accustomed
cry of 'Good-evening.'"

Ah, how Boris Nikolaievitch and Michael Korsakoff watched her as
she sang! Truly, no one ever can guess the anger or the love that
broods in a Slavic heart under a soldier's tunic, whether the
soldier wisely plays at the guzla, as the correct Boris, or merely
lounges, twirling his mustache with his manicured and perfumed