“O blest native land!  O fatherland mine! 
     How long for thy refuge in vain shall I pine?”

He could have believed there were tears in her eyes just then; but there were none, he knew, when she came to the fierce piteous appeal that followed—­

    “Where, where are thy proud sons, so lordly in might? 
     All mown down and fallen in blood-welling fight! 
     Thy cities are ruin, thy valleys lie waste,
     Their summer enchantment the foe hath erased. 
       O blest native land! how long shalt decline? 
     When, when will the Lord cry, ‘Revenge, it is Mine!’”

The zither speaks; but there is a speech beyond that of the zither.  The penetrating vibration of this rich and pathetic voice was a thing not easily to be forgotten.  When the two friends left the house, they found themselves in the chill darkness of an English night in February.  Surely it must have seemed to them that they had been dwelling for a period in warmer climes, with gay colors, and warmth, and sweet sounds around them.  They walked for some time in silence.

“Well,” said Lord Evelyn, at last, “what do you think of them?”

“I don’t know,” said the other, after a pause.  “I am puzzled.  How did you come to know them?”

“I came to know Lind through a newspaper reporter called O’Halloran.  I should like to introduce you to him too.”

George Brand soon afterward parted from his friend, and walked away down to his silent rooms over the river.  The streets were dark and deserted, and the air was still; yet there seemed somehow to be a tremulous, passionate, distant sound in the night.  It was no tinkling “Santa Lucia” dying away over the blue seas in the south.  It was no dull, sonorous bell, suggesting memories of the far Campagna.  Was it not rather the quick, responsive echo that had involuntarily arisen in his own heart, when he heard Natalie Lind’s thrilling voice pour forth that proud and indignant appeal,

    “When, when will the Lord cry, ‘Revenge, it is Mine!’”

CHAPTER IV.

A STRANGER.

Ferdinand Lind was in his study, busy with his morning letters.  It was a nondescript little den, which he also used as library and smoking-room; its chief feature being a collection of portraits—­a most heterogeneous assortment of engravings, photographs, woodcuts, and terra-cotta busts.  Wherever the book-shelves ceased, these began; and as there were a great number of them, and as the room was small, Mr. Lind’s friends or historical heroes sometimes came into odd juxtaposition.  In any case, they formed a strange assemblage—­Arndt and Korner; Stein; Silvio Pellico and Karl Sand cheek by jowl; Pestal, Comte, Cromwell, Garibaldi, Marx, Mazzini, Bem, Kossuth, Lassalle, and many another writer and fighter.  A fine engraving of Napoleon as First Consul was hung over the mantel-piece, a pipe-rack intervening between it and a fac-simile of the warrant for the execution of Charles I.