If his attendants made such noise as to break in on it, or if
it ceased for a moment, the anguish returned, but was charmed away by
the weakest, faintest resumption of the song. Probably Friedel knew
not, with any earthly sense, what he was doing, but to the very last
he was serving his twin brother as none other could have aided him in
his need.
The September sun had set, twilight was coming on, the doctor had
worked his stern will, and Ebbo, quivering in every fibre, lay spent
on his pillow, when his mother glided in, and took her seat near him,
though where she hoped he would not notice her presence. But he
raised his eyelids, and said, "He is not singing now."
"Singing indeed, but where we cannot hear him," she answered.
"'Whiter than the snow, clearer than the ice-cave, more solemn than
the choir. They will come at last.' That was what he said, even as
he entered there." And the low dove-like tone and tender calm face
continued upon Ebbo the spell that the chant had left. He dozed as
though still lulled by its echo.
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