Brand said, "I pity them, too."
He walked over to the piano and made an abrupt request, as though to change the subject of conversation.
"Sing something. . . . Something English!"
Eileen O'Connor sang something Irish first, and I liked her deep voice, so low and sweet.
"There's one that is pure as an angel
And fair as the flowers of May,
They call her the gentle maiden
Wherever she takes her way.
Her eyes have the glance of sunlight
As it brightens the blue sea-wave,
And more than the deep-sea treasure
The love of her heart I crave.
Though parted afar from my darling,
I dream of her everywhere.
The sound of her voice is about me,
The spell of her presence there.
And whether my prayer be granted,
Or whether she pass me by,
The face of that gentle maiden
Will follow me till I die."
Brand was standing by the piano, with the light of the tall lamp on his face, and I saw that there was a wetness in his eyes before the song was ended.
"It is queer to hear that in Lille," he said. "It's so long since I heard a woman sing, and it's like water to a parched soul."
Eileen O'Connor played the last bars again and, as she played, talked softly.
"To me, the face of that gentle maiden is a friend's face. Alice de Villers-Auxicourt, who died in prison.
'And whether my prayer be granted,
Or whether she pass me by,
The face of that gentle maiden
Will follow me till I die.'"
