The moon was climbing high.

As Richard rowed the boat, Lucy, sang to him softly.

She sang first a fresh little French song, reminding him of a day when she had been asked to sing to him before, and he did not care to hear.

"Did I live ?" he thinks.

Then she sang to him a bit of one of those majestic old Gregorian chants, that, wherever you may hear them, seem to build up cathedral walls about you.