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Now, as they went slowly down the white road, the Tzigani played the plaintive melancholy air of Janos Nemeth, that air impregnated with tears, that air which she used so often to play herself "The World holds but One Fair Maiden!" And this time, bursting into tears, he said to her, with his heart breaking in his breast: "Yes, there is but thee, Marsa! but thee, my beloved, thee, thee alone!
Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; then, leaning over the Tzigana till his breath fanned her cheek, he murmured: "Janos Nemeth was right. The world holds but one fair maiden." She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving him her hand, said: "It is almost a madrigal, my dear Prince, is it not? I am going to be frank with you. You love me, I know; and I also love you.
Now, as they went slowly down the white road, the Tzigani played the plaintive melancholy air of Janos Nemeth, that air impregnated with tears, that air which she used so often to play herself "The World holds but One Fair Maiden!" And this time, bursting into tears, he said to her, with his heart breaking in his breast: "Yes, there is but thee, Marsa! but thee, my beloved, thee, thee alone!
Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; then, leaning over the Tzigana till his breath fanned her cheek, he murmured: "Janos Nemeth was right. The world holds but one fair maiden." She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving him her hand, said: "It is almost a madrigal, my dear Prince, is it not? I am going to be frank with you. You love me, I know; and I also love you.
When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm. At first he only questioned her anxiously as to her health. "Oh! I am well," she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad romance which was her favorite air. "That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?" asked the Prince. "Yes, by Janos Nemeth.
Now, as they went slowly down the white road, the Tzigani played the plaintive melancholy air of Janos Nemeth, that air impregnated with tears, that air which she used so often to play herself "The World holds but One Fair Maiden!"
Finally the Tzigana would slowly wend her way home, enter the villa, sit down before the piano, and play, with ineffable sweetness, like souvenirs of another life, the free and wandering life of her mother, the Hungarian airs of Janos Nemeth, the sad "Song of Plevna," the sparkling air of "The Little Brown Maid of Budapest," and that bitter; melancholy romance, "The World holds but One Fair Maiden," a mournful and despairing melody, which she preferred to all others, because it responded, with its tearful accents, to a particular state of her own heart.
When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm. At first he only questioned her anxiously as to her health. "Oh! I am well," she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad romance which was her favorite air. "That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?" asked the Prince. "Yes, by Janos Nemeth.
Rising, he looked at the title, printed in Hungarian; then, leaning over the Tzigana till his breath fanned her cheek, he murmured: "Janos Nemeth was right. The world holds but one fair maiden." She turned very pale, rose from the piano, and giving him her hand, said: "It is almost a madrigal, my dear Prince, is it not? I am going to be frank with you. You love me, I know; and I also love you.
When Zilah came the next day he found Marsa perfectly calm. At first he only questioned her anxiously as to her health. "Oh! I am well," she replied, smiling a little sadly; and, turning to the piano at which she was seated, she began to play the exquisitely sad romance which was her favorite air. "That is by Janos Nemeth, is it not?" asked the Prince. "Yes, by Janos Nemeth.
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