PART SEVENTH
«The moon made thy lips pale, beloved;
The wind made thy bosom chill;
The night did shed
On thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.»
NEXT morning our three friends lay late abed, and breakfasted in their rooms.
They had all three passed «white nights»—even the Laird, who had tossed about and pressed a sleepless pillow till dawn, so excited had he been by the wonder of Trilby’s reincarnation, so perplexed by his own doubts as to whether it was really Trilby or not.
And certain haunting tones of her voice, that voice so cruelly sweet (which clove the stillness with a clang so utterly new, so strangely heart-piercing and seductive, that the desire to hear it once more became nostalgic—almost an
