They saw him framed in a little pale aisle of the Forest, a faintly defined fragile ghost, crouched against the trunk of a tree, bent awkwardly into an attitude of pain forgotten and ecstatic attention.

It was his dearest moment that they saw, a moment without death.

For he was a prisoner in a perfect spell; he was utterly entangled in the looped and ensnaring song of a nightingale.

The song was like beaten gold wire.

Never again in her life did Sarah Brown profane with her poor voice the words that a perfect singer begot in a marriage with a perfect song.