While preluding on her guitar, Cecily fixed her magnetic glances on Jacques
Ferrand, who, fascinated, could not withdraw.

"Now, master," said the Creole, "listen to a song of my country; we do not
know how to make verses; we muse a simple recitative, without rhyme, and at
each pause we improvise a couplet appropriate to the subject; it is very
pastoral; it will please you, I am sure, master. This song is called the
'Loving Girl!' it is she who speaks."

And Cecily commenced a kind of recitative, much more accented by the
expression of the voice than by the modulations of the song. A few soft and
trembling chords served as an accompaniment. This was the song:

"Flowers, everywhere flowers,
My lover comes! The hope of happiness enervates and destroys.
Soften the light of day--pleasure seeks a lucid darkness.
To the fresh perfume of flowers my love prefers my warm breath,
The glare of day shall not wound his eyes, for I will keep them closed
by my kisses.
My angel, come! My heart beats; my blood burns!
Come, come, come!"

These words, chanted with as much ardor as if she had addressed an
invisible lover, were, thus to speak, translated by the Creole into a theme
of enchanting melody; her charming fingers drew from her guitar sounds full
of delicious harmony.

The animated face of Cecily, her veiled and moistened eyes constantly fixed
on those of Jacques Ferrand, expressed all the languor of the song. Words
of love; intoxicating music; inflamed looks; silence; night! all conspired