It had a thrill of exultation.

Something in the voice, insistent, vibrating, personal, made every note a thrust of victory.

In spite of her indignation at the insolent serenade, she thrilled; for the strain of the Past was in her, and it had been fighting with her all night, breaking in upon the Present, tugging at the cords of youth.
The man's daring roused her admiration, even as her anger mounted.

If her father heard the singing, there could be no doubt that Jethro Fawe's doom would be sealed.

Gabriel Druse would resent this insolence to the daughter of the Ry of Rys.