In her sidelong glance there was something dark and wild; as there was something fascinating in the pure lines of her nose. The light-hearted singer recalled to me the Mignon of Goethe, that fantastic creation of the German mind. Between these two personages there was indeed a striking resemblance. The same sudden transitions from restless agitation to perfect calm; the same enigmatic words and the same songs.
Towards the evening I stopped my Undine at the door of the hut, and said to her:
"Tell me, my pretty one, what you were doing to-day on the roof?"
"I was seeing in what direction the wind blew."
"How did that concern you?"
"Whence blows the wind, thence comes happiness."
"And your singing was to bring you good fortune?"
"Where singing is heard, there is joy."
"But what should you say if your singing caused unhappiness?"
"If unhappiness arrives it must be borne. And from grief to joy the distance is not great."
"Who taught you these songs?"
"No one; I dream and I sing; those who understand me listen to me, and these who do not listen to me cannot understand me."
"What is your name?"
"Ask those who baptized me."
"And who baptized you?"
"I do not know."
"Ah! you are very mysterious, but I know something about you."
There was no sign of emotion on her face; her lips did not move.
"Last night," I continued, "you were on the sea-shore." Then I told her the scene I had witnessed. I thought this would have caused her to evince some symptom of anxiety, but it had no such effect.
"You assisted at a curious interview," she said to me with a laugh, "but you do not know much, and what you do know you had better keep under lock and key, as you would keep some precious treasure."
"But if," I continued, with a grave and almost menacing air, "I were to relate what I saw to the commandant?"
At these words she darted away, singing, and disappeared like a frightened bird. I was wrong in addressing this threat to her. At the moment I did not understand all its gravity.
The night came. I told my Cossack to prepare the tea urn, lighted a wax candle, and sat down at the table, smoking my long pipe. I was drinking my tea when the door opened, and I heard the rustling of a dress. I rose hastily and recognised my siren.
She sat down silently before me, and fixed me with a look which made me tremble; one of those magical looks which had troubled my life in earlier days. She seemed to expect me to speak to her, but some undefinable emotion deprived me of the faculty of speech. Her countenance was as pale as death. In this paleness I
