found this maiden, and she had been very kind
to him; but her kindness had been little better
than cruelty, because he had demanded something
more than kindness. And still he had
never told her of his love. He must tell her even
this very night while the moon rode high in the
heavens and all the small differences between
human beings seemed lost in the vast starlit
stillness. He knew well that by the relentless
glare of the daylight his own insignificance
would be cruelly conspicuous in the presence of
her splendor; his scruples would revive, and his
courage fade.

The night was clear and still. A clock struck
eleven in some church tower near by. The Van
Kirk mansion rose tall and stately in the moonlight,
flinging a dense mass of shadow across
the street. Up in the third story he saw two
windows lighted; the curtains were drawn, but
the blinds were not closed. All the rest of the
house was dark. He raised his voice and sang
a Swedish serenade which seemed in perfect
concord with his own mood. His clear tenor
rose through the silence of the night, and a
feeble echo flung it back from the mansion
opposite:

[3] "Star, sweet star, that brightly beamest,
Glittering on the skies nocturnal,