152 MASTER SKYLARK

sight from unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and
marked the time as if their throats were pendulums;
could syncopate and floriate as readily as breathe. And
this was only a common country song.

But—“ That voice, that voice!” he panted to himself:
for old Nat Gyles was music-mad ; melody to him was like
the very breath of life. And the boy’s high, young voice,
soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in the air as if
his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound.
And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up,
up, up, till the older choristers held their breath and feared
that the vibrant tone would break, so slender, film-like
was the trembling thread of the boy’s wild skylark song.
But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a moment
in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down,
as though some one had set a song on fire in the sky, and
dropped it quivering and bright into a shadow world.
Then suddenly it was gone, and the long hall was still.

The old precentor stepped beyond the screen.

Gaston Carew’s face was in his hands, and his shoulders
shook convulsively. “I ’ll leave thee go, lad,—ma foi,
I'll leave thee go. But, nay, I dare not leave thee go!”

Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was
the sub-precentor. “Master Gyles would speak with thee,
sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if half afraid of the sound
of his own voice in the quiet that was in the hall.

Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take
the old one off and put a new one on, then arose and fol-
lowed the man.