We talked till late into the night, lay down on our soft, clean beds of
straw, and were soon asleep.
I did not know how long I had been sleeping when I was wakened by a
voice that seemed to fill the room, low, soft, and musical as the tones
of an Aeolian harp. I groped my way noiselessly in the dark to Max's bed
and aroused him. Placing my hand over his mouth to insure silence, I
whispered:--
"Listen!"
He rested on his elbow, and we waited. After a few seconds the voice
again resounded through the room, soft as a murmured ave, distinct as
the notes of a bird. Max clutched my hand. Soon the voice came again,
and we heard the words:--
"Little Max, do you hear? Answer softly."
"I hear," responded Max.
There was an uncanny note in the music of the voice. It seemed almost
celestial. We could not tell whence it came. Every stone in the walls
and ceiling, every slab in the floor seemed resonant with silvery tones.
After Max had answered there was a pause lasting two or three minutes,
and the voice spoke again:--
"I love you, Little Max. I tell you because I wish to comfort you. Do
not fear. You shall be free to-morrow. Do not answer. Adieu."
"Yolanda! Yolanda!" cried Max, pleadingly; but he received no answer. He
put his hand on my shoulder and said:--
"It was Yolanda, Karl--ah, God must hate a child that He brings into
the world a prince."
For the rest of the night we did not sleep, neither did we speak. The
morrow was to be a day of frightful import to us, and we awaited it in
great anxiety.
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