He listened to it at first, as he had listened in the
church-yard; but presently - it playing still, and being borne
towards him on the night air, in a low, sweet, melancholy strain -
he rose, and stood stretching his hands about him, as if there were
some friend approaching within his reach, on whom his desolate
touch might rest, yet do no harm. As he did this, his face became
less fixed and wondering; a gentle trembling came upon him; and at
last his eyes filled with tears, and he put his hands before them,
and bowed down his head.
His memory of sorrow, wrong, and trouble, had not come back to him;
he knew that it was not restored; he had no passing belief or hope
that it was. But some dumb stir within him made him capable,
again, of being moved by what was hidden, afar off, in the music.
If it were only that it told him sorrowfully the value of what he
had lost, he thanked Heaven for it with a fervent gratitude.
As the last chord died upon his ear, he raised his head to listen
to its lingering vibration. Beyond the boy, so that his sleeping
figure lay at its feet, the Phantom stood, immovable and silent,
with its eyes upon him.
Ghastly it was, as it had ever been, but not so cruel and
relentless in its aspect - or he thought or hoped so, as he looked
upon it trembling.
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