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Updated: July 8, 2025
"To suffer, to give one's self freely to the world; to die to myself in delicious pain, like the last tremulous notes of the sweet boy-voice that had soared to God in the Magnificat. Oh, Miriam, if I could lead our brethren out of the Ghetto, if I could die to bring them happiness, to make them free sons of Rome." "A goodly wish, my son, but to be fulfilled by God alone." "Even so.
Without elocutionary tricks, without fire and oratory, the boy-voice had changed in timbre, acquired a quality that could sway multitudes the wild thought crossed Phil's mind that what it had acquired was the quality of complete sanity. A suspicion, planted deliberately and nurtured through the years, matured on the triggered instant.
He had a fondness for wandering musicians, and, from an old Italian who had in his youth been a singer in opera, he had learned to sing a number of songs in his strong, musical boy-voice. He knew well many of the songs of the people in several countries. It was very dull this first morning, and he wished that he had something to do or some one to speak to.
And he stood with his face lifted, looking at the great white sailing moon. He stood very still and seemed for the moment to forget the world and himself. It was a wonderful, triumphant queen of a moon. But something brought him back to earth. A low, but strong and clear, boy-voice came up to him from the garden path below. "The Lamp is lighted.
It was the eager questioning of a modest, affectionate boy who curbs his natural effervescence of greeting like a well-trained dog. The tone was astonishingly young, a quiet, husky boy-voice. "Damn you, Pete!" was snarled at him for answer. "Haven't you got my boot mended yet?"
"Bella!" he shouted, his boy-voice ringing with relief. "Bella! Here's Hugh. He's come back." Bella was instantly at his side. They stood waiting in the doorway. Against the violet sky darkening above the blue wall of snow, a bulky figure rose, blotting out the light. It half slid, half tumbled down upon them, clumsy and shapeless. "Let us in," panted Hugh. "Let us in."
"I don't know, but I heard branches crackling in the wood," replied the terrified boy-voice, "and I saw your light through the shutters." "You rake the ashes over the fire, while I let him in," ordered the great-great-grandmother Letitia, peremptorily, and Letitia obeyed.
Evidently the head of the house speaking. I obeyed. A corpulent soldier importantly lead me to my cell. My cell is two doors away from the monkey-angel, on the same side. The high boy-voice, centralized in a torrent-like halo of stretchings, followed my back. The head himself unlocked a lock. I marched coldly in. The fat soldier locked and chained my door. Four feet went away.
The beautiful lady herself remarked it, and thought how unlike it was to the ordinary boy-voice. "I have a latch-key," she said, when they stood on the low step. She found the latch-key in her purse and opened the door. Marco helped her into the entrance-hall. She sat down at once in a chair near the hat-stand. The place was quite plain and old-fashioned inside.
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