held them. As he once more drew close to the pane and looked across to the lighted window, he saw the woman slowly removing the pins from her hair, which fell down over her shoulders and breast like a soft mantle. Involuntarily the Eagle gave an exclamation of surprise and joy, as he realized that it must be the woman who had been maltreated by the prisoners.
With a rattle of his irons the prisoner opened his window and sat for a long time watching the lighted frame in the opposite wall, although the shadow of the woman had long since disappeared. After waiting for a sufficient interval to assure himself that the woman was already in bed, he began to sing. It was a wild, monotone chant, like the drive of gusts of rain upon the autumn leaves. He sang about the mighty river, the swift boats of the robbers, about bloody fights, pursuits and escapes; then, with his measured tones swung into a wail, he sang of the prison life; and, after this, louder and more sonorously, he sang of dreams that remain dreams, of love that is already dead. Something at once elemental and beautiful lay in this song of the robber. It was as though the soul of this man were singing, as though a powerful wave mounted to his breast and from there ran out to surge against the prison wall.
Suddenly he stopped singing and began to whistle. From the great chest, deepened by the life of the forest and the river, came forth a low, trembling sound, filled with a sad dreaminess. Gradually the tones augmented in volume and strength, changing to a melody passionate, wild and warm. As I listened to this whistling, I understood the voice of the nightingale in spring, when it sees and hears nothing in its complete obsession by song. It was love, longing for the unknown, beloved woman; it was a request, powerful and masterful.
