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Updated: April 30, 2025
The weird music of the wind became Ireland's cry of lament for her dead. The tossing boughs beyond the window, rain-spattered and somber, took on eerily the outline of dark-cloaked women keeners rocking and chanting the music of death. The rain was tears. Ochone! Ochone! The wind of sorrow rose and fell, rose and fell, with unearthly cadence.
A dark, dreamy silence wraps the cottage in its soft embrace, the moon, clear and full, sails tranquilly through the star-sown heavens, and the sweet scent of distant orange groves is wafted through the midnight breeze. Yet the dark-cloaked figure that walks quickly and softly up the graveled walk sees none of the soft, calm beauty of the still summer night.
'I have brought my father's harp, said Eleanor. 'Ah! I must hear it, she cried with effusion. 'The harp. It will be his voice again. 'Madame! Madame! Madame la Dauphine. Out here! Ever reckless of dew ay, and of waur than dew. These last words were added in Scotch, as a tall, dark-cloaked figure appeared on the scene from between the trees.
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