"She is coming-my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat Had it lain for a century dead." A rich musical voice trolled out the words, not once, but many times over-carelessly at first, and then the full sense of them seemed to strike the singer. "'Had it lain for a century dead, '" he repeated slowly. "Ah, me! the difference between poetry and fact-when I have lain for a century dead, the light footfalls of a fair woman will not awaken me. 'Beyond the sun, woman's beauty and woman's love are of small account;' yet here-ah, when will she come?"