the white captain gave me. I cannot sleep."

At this order a deep shade of melancholy settled upon Babalatchi's
features. He went reluctantly behind the curtain and soon reappeared
carrying in his arms a small hand-organ, which he put down on the table
with an air of deep dejection. Lakamba settled himself comfortably in
his arm-chair.

"Turn, Babalatchi, turn," he murmured, with closed eyes.

Babalatchi's hand grasped the handle with the energy of despair, and as
he turned, the deep gloom on his countenance changed into an expression
of hopeless resignation. Through the open shutter the notes of Verdi's
music floated out on the great silence over the river and forest. Lakamba
listened with closed eyes and a delighted smile; Babalatchi turned, at
times dozing off and swaying over, then catching himself up in a great
fright with a few quick turns of the handle. Nature slept in an
exhausted repose after the fierce turmoil, while under the unsteady hand
of the statesman of Sambir the Trovatore fitfully wept, wailed, and bade
good-bye to his Leonore again and again in a mournful round of tearful
and endless iteration.




CHAPTER VII.


The bright sunshine of the clear mistless morning, after the stormy
night, flooded the main path of the settlement leading from the low shore