vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared that the soldier on duty—a zealous Catholic, no doubt—shook off the charm, for through the door he called: “Hold your tongue, Madame! Your song is as dismal as a ‘De profundis’; and if besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such things as these, no mortal can hold out.”
“Silence!” then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady recognized as that of Felton. “What are you meddling with, stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from singing? No. You were told to guard her—to fire at her if she attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don’t exceed your orders.”
An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon had bestowed upon it:
“For all my tears, my cares, My exile, and my chains, I have my youth, my prayers, And God, who counts my pains.”
Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the furnace.
Milady continued:
“One day our doors will ope, With God come our desire; And if betrays that hope, To death we can aspire.”