I saw one put a hollow reed to his lips. It was a forlorn, sweet air that he played, an ancient forgotten strain learned of a shepherding woman upon the hills. The Song of Songs it was that he played: and the beating of hearts was heard, and I heard sighs, and a voice like a distant bird-song rose and fell.
"Play me a song of Death," I said. Then he who had the hollow reed at his lips smiled, and he played again the Song of Songs...Fiona Macleod
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