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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Cross, by Olive M. Briggs
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Black Cross
+
+Author: Olive M. Briggs
+
+Release Date: April 30, 2007 [EBook #21259]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK CROSS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Frontispiece: "Ah, mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"]
+
+
+
+
+
+
+THE BLACK CROSS
+
+
+BY
+
+OLIVE M. BRIGGS
+
+
+
+_Frontispiece by_
+
+SIGISMOND DE IVANOWSKI
+
+
+
+
+NEW YORK
+
+MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
+
+1909
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, 1909, by
+
+MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY
+
+NEW YORK
+
+
+Published, February, 1909
+
+
+
+
+to
+
+YAPHAH
+
+
+
+
+THE BLACK CROSS
+
+
+PART I
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+It was night in St. Petersburg.  The moon was high in the heavens, and
+the domes, crowned with a fresh diadem of snow, glittered with a
+dazzling whiteness.  In the side streets the shadows were heavy, the
+façades of the great palaces casting strange and dark reflections upon
+the pavement; but the main thoroughfares were streaked as with silver,
+while along the quay all was bright and luminous as at noontide, the
+Neva asleep like a frozen Princess under a breast-plate of shimmering
+ice.
+
+The wind was cold, the air frosty and gay with tinkling sleigh-bells.
+A constant stream of people in sledges and on foot filled the Morskaïa,
+hurrying in the one direction.  The great Square of the Mariínski was
+alive with a moving, jostling throng, surging backwards and forwards
+before the steps of the Theatre like waves on a rock; a gay,
+well-dressed, chattering multitude, eager to present their tickets, or
+buy them as the case might be, and enter the gaping doors into the
+brilliantly lighted foyer beyond.
+
+It was ballet night, but for the first time in the memory of the
+Theatre no ballet was to be given.  Instead of the "Première Danseuse,"
+the idol of Russian society, a new star had appeared, suddenly,
+miraculously almost, dropped from a Polish Province, and had played
+himself into the innermost heart of St. Petersburg.
+
+The four strings of his Stradivarius, so fragile, so delicate and slim,
+were as four chains to bind the people to him; four living wires over
+which the sound of his fame sped from city to city, from province to
+province, until there was no musician in all the Russias who could play
+as Velasco, no instrument like his with the gift of tears and of
+laughter as well, all the range of human emotions hidden within its
+slender, resinous body.
+
+So the people said as they gossiped together on the steps: "The great
+Velasco!  The wonderful Velasco!"  And now he was on his way to
+Germany.  It was his last concert, his "farewell."
+
+The announcement had been blazoned about on red and yellow handbills
+for weeks.  One Salle after the other had offered itself, each more
+commodious than the last; but they were as nothing to the demands of
+the box-office.  The list grew longer, the clamourings louder; and at
+last the unprecedented happened.  At the request of a titled committee
+under the signature of the Grand-Duke Stepan himself, the Mariínski,
+largest and most beautiful of theatres, had opened its doors to the
+young god; and the price of tickets went up in leaps like a barometer
+after a storm;--fifteen roubles for a seat, twenty--twenty-five--and
+finally no seat at all, not even standing-room.
+
+The crowd melted away gradually; the doors of the foyer closed; the
+harsh cries of the speculators died in the distance.  Behind the
+Theatre the ice on the canal glimmered and sparkled.  The moon climbed
+higher and the bells of the Nikolski Church rang out clearly,
+resonantly above the tree-tops.
+
+Scarcely had the last stroke sounded when a black sleigh, drawn by a
+pair of splendid bays, dashed out of a side street and crossed the
+Pozeluïef bridge at a gallop.  At the same moment a troïka, with three
+horses abreast, turned sharply into the Glinki and the two collided
+with a crash, the occupants flung out on the snow, the frightened
+animals plunging and rearing in a tangled, inextricable heap.
+
+The drivers rushed to the horses' heads.
+
+"A pest on you, son of a goat!" screamed the one, "Have you eyes in the
+back of your head that you can't see a yard in front of you?"
+
+"Viper!" retorted the other furiously, "Damnation on you and your bad
+driving!  Call the police!  Arrest the shark of an anarchist!"
+
+Meanwhile the master of the black sleigh, a heavily built, elderly man,
+had picked himself out of a drift with the assistance of his lackey and
+was brushing the snow from his long fur cloak.  A fur cap, pulled down
+over his eyes, hid his face, but his gestures were angry, and his voice
+was high and rasping.
+
+"Where is the fellow?" he snarled, "Let me see him; let me see his
+face.  Away, Pierre, I tell you, go to the horses!  A mercy indeed if
+their legs are not broken.  A pretty pass this, that one can't drive
+through the streets of the capital, not even incognito!--Call the
+police!"
+
+The other gentleman, who seemed little more than a boy, stood by the
+overturned troïka wringing his hands:
+
+"Is it hurt, my little one, my treasure, is it scratched?  Keep their
+hoofs away, Bobo, hold them still a moment while I raise one end."
+
+He knelt in the snow and peered eagerly beneath the sleigh.
+
+"Sacre--ment!" cried the older man, "What is he after?  Quick, on him,
+Pierre!  Don't let him escape."
+
+The lackey moved cautiously forward, and then gave a sudden leap back
+as the boyish figure sprang to his feet, clasping a dark, oblong object
+in his arms.
+
+"A bomb, a bomb!  In the name of all the saints!  If he should drop it
+they were doomed, they were dead men!"
+
+The eyes of the lackey were bulging with terror and he stood riveted to
+the spot.  In the meantime the young man had snatched out his watch and
+was holding it up into a patch of moonlight.
+
+"Twenty past the hour!" he exclaimed, "and old Galitsin fuming, I'll be
+bound!  I'll have to make a run for it.  Hey, Bobo!"
+
+As he spoke, an iron hand came down on his shoulder and he looked up
+amazed into a pair of eyes, small and black and crossed, flashing with
+fury.
+
+"Drop it," hissed a voice, "and I'll throttle you as you stand!
+Traitor!  Assassin!  Your driver obeyed orders, did he?  You knew?
+Vermin, you ran us down!  How did you know?  Who betrayed me?--Who?"
+
+The youth stood motionless for a moment in astonishment.  He was
+helpless as a girl in that vicious grasp that was bearing him under
+slowly, relentlessly.  "For the love of heaven," he cried, "Let go my
+arm, you brute, you'll sprain a muscle!  Be careful!"
+
+"Drop it, and I swear by all that is holy--"
+
+"You old fool, you curmudgeon, you coward of an old blatherskite!"
+cried the boy, "I wouldn't drop it for all the world, not if you went
+on your bended knees.  Bobo, yell for the police!  Don't you touch my
+wrist!  Look out now!  Of all unpleasant things--!
+
+"Bobo, come here.  Never mind the horses.  I tell you he is ruining my
+arm!--Hey!  Help!  You're an anarchist yourself, you fool!  Shout,
+Bobo, shout!"
+
+In the struggle the two had passed from the shadow into the moonlight
+and they now confronted one another.  The master of the black sleigh
+was still enveloped in his cloak, only the gleam of his eyes, small and
+black and crossed, was visible under the cap, his beaked nose and the
+upward twist of his grey mustache.
+
+The youth stood erect and angry; his head was bare, thrown back as a
+young lion at bay, his dark hair falling like a mane, clustered in
+waves about his broad, overhanging brows; strange brows and strange
+eyes underneath.  The mouth was sensitive, the chin short and rather
+full, the whole aspect as of some one distinguished and out of the
+ordinary.
+
+They stared at one another for a moment and then the hand of the older
+man dropped to his side.  "I beg your pardon," he said, with some show
+of apology in his tone, "Surely I must have made a mistake.  Where have
+I seen you before?  You are no anarchist; pray, pardon me."
+
+The young man was feeling his arm ruefully: "Good gracious, sir," he
+said, "but you are hasty!--I never felt such a grip.  The muscles are
+quite sore already, but luckily it is the left arm, otherwise, Bózhe
+moi[1], I vow I'd sue you!--If it were the fingers now, or the wrist--"
+
+He took off his fur gloves and examined both hands carefully, one after
+the other.  A scornful look came over the older man's face:
+
+"There was no excuse, my friend, for the way your troïka rounded that
+corner.  Such driving is criminal in a public street.  It's a mercy we
+weren't all killed!  Still, you really must pardon me, these anarchist
+devils are everywhere nowadays and one has to take precautions.  I was
+hurrying to the Mariínski."
+
+Hardly were the words out of his mouth, when there came the snapping of
+two watch lids almost simultaneously, and both gentlemen gave a cry of
+consternation.
+
+"Oh, the deuce!" exclaimed the boy, "so was I, and look at the time if
+you please; the House will be in an uproar!"
+
+The older man hurried towards the already righted sleigh: "Most
+unfortunate," he fumed, "and to-night of all nights!  The entire
+concert will be at a standstill.  The rug, Pierre, quick the rug!  Are
+the horses ready?  Hurry, you great lumbering son of an ox!"
+
+The boy had already leaped into the troïka and was wrapping the fur
+robes about his knees.  "We shall put in an appearance about the same
+time, sir," he called back carelessly over his shoulder.  "You won't
+miss anything, not a note, if that will comfort you.  Hey, Bobo, go
+ahead!  The concert can't begin without me."
+
+"Without you," interrupted the other, "eh, what--you?  Tısyacha
+chertéi[2]!  What do you mean?"
+
+The master of the black sleigh stood up suddenly and threw back his
+cloak with a haughty gesture.  He was in uniform and his breast
+glittered with orders.  His cap fell back from his face, and his eyes,
+small and black and crossed, his beaked nose, his grey upturned
+mustache, showed distinctly in the moonlight.  The face was known to
+every Russian, young and old, rich and poor--the Grand-Duke Stepan.
+
+The youth made a low obeisance; then he tossed the hair away from his
+brows and laughed: "True, your highness," he said with mock humility,
+"I should have said--'until we both get there,' of course.  Your
+pardon, sire."
+
+The Duke leaned forward: "Stop--!" he exclaimed, "Your face--certainly
+somewhere I have seen it--Wait!"
+
+The driver of the troïka reined in the panting horses three abreast.
+They pawed the snow, still prancing a little and trembling, their bits
+flecked with foam.  The youth saluted with one hand carelessly, while
+with the other he grasped the dark, oblong object that was not a bomb.
+
+"Au revoir, your Grace," he cried, "You have seen me before and you
+will see me again, to-night, if this arm of mine recovers--"  He
+laughed:--"I am Velasco."
+
+As he spoke the horses leaped forward and the troïka, darting across
+the moonlight of the Square, disappeared into the shadows behind the
+Mariínski.
+
+The Duke gazed after it petrified: "Velasco!" he said, "And I all but
+twisted his wrist!--Ye gods!
+
+"Go on, Pierre, go on!"
+
+
+The Theatre was superbly lighted, crowded from the pit to the gallery,
+from the orchestra chairs to the Bel-Etage with the cream of St.
+Petersburg aristocracy.
+
+It was like a vast garden of colour.
+
+The brilliant uniforms of the officers mingled with the more delicate
+hues of ecru and rose, sky-blue and palest heliotrope of the loggias.
+Fans waved here and there over the house, fluttering, flashing like
+myriads of butterfly wings.  The stage was filled with the black and
+white of the orchestra and the musicians sat waiting, the conductor
+gnawing his long mustache in an agony of doubt and bewilderment.
+
+Gradually a hush stole over the House.  The fans waved less regularly;
+the uniforms and the more delicate hues whispered together, glancing
+first at a box on the first tier, which was still empty, and then at
+the stage door and back again.
+
+Where was the Grand-Duke Stepan, and where was the star, the idol, the
+young god, who was to charm their hearts with his four strings?--for
+whom they had paid fifteen roubles, twenty--twenty-five until there
+wasn't a seat left, not even standing room; only the crimson-curtained
+Imperial Loggia in the centre, solitary, significant.
+
+The time passed; the minutes dragged slowly.
+
+Suddenly the curtains moved.  An usher appeared and placed a chair.
+Another moment of silence; then a tall, grey-haired, military figure
+stepped to the front of the loggia and bowed to right and to left; his
+eyes, small and black and crossed, glancing haughtily over the throng.
+"At last!"--The applause was mechanical, in strict accordance with
+etiquette, but there was a relieved note in it and the thousands of
+straining eyes leaped back to the stage, eager and watchful.
+
+All at once a small door in the wings opened slightly and a slim boyish
+figure strode across the boards, a mane of dark hair falling over his
+brows.
+
+"Velasco!"  A roar went up from the House--"Velasco!
+Ah--h--viva--Velas--co!"
+
+Instantly, with a tap of his baton, the conductor motioned for silence,
+and then, with the first downward beat, the orchestra began the
+introduction to the concerto.
+
+The young Violinist stood languidly, his Stradivarius tucked under his
+arm, the bow held in a slim and graceful hand.  His dark eyes roamed
+over the brilliant spectacle before him, from tier to tier, from top to
+bottom.  He had seen it all before many times; but never so beautiful,
+so vast an audience, such a glory of colour, such closeness of
+attention.  Raising his violin, with a strange, dreamy swaying of his
+young body, Velasco drew the bow over the quivering strings in the
+first solo passage of the Vieuxtemps.
+
+The tones rose and fell above the volume of the orchestra.  The depth
+of them, the sweetness seemed to penetrate to the uttermost corner.  A
+curious tenseness came over the listening audience.  Not a soul
+stirred.  The Grand-Duke sat motionless with his head in his hands.
+The strings vibrated to each individual heart-beat; the bow sighed over
+them, and with the last note a murmur and then a roar went up.
+
+Velasco stirred slightly, dropped his bow and bowed, without raising
+his eyes.  Then, hardly waiting for the applause to subside, the second
+movement began, slow and passionate.  The notes became fuller and more
+sensuous.  The hush deepened.  The silence grew more intense; a strain
+of listening, a fixed eagerness of watching.
+
+Suddenly, in the midst, the Violinist raised his head from his
+instrument, drawing the bow with a slow, downward, caressing pressure
+over the E string.  His eyes, half veiled and dreamy, looked straight
+across the House into a loggia next to the Imperial Box, impelled
+thereto by some force outside of his own consciousness.
+
+A girl with an exquisite flower-like face was leaning over the crimson
+rail, her gaze on his, fixed and intent.  The gold of her hair
+glistened in the light.  Her lips were parted, the bosom of her dress
+rising and falling; her small hands clasped.
+
+Velasco gazed steadily for a moment; then he dropped his head again,
+and swaying slightly played on.
+
+The bow seemed fairly to rend the strings.  He toyed with the
+difficulties; his scales, his arpeggios were as a flash, a ripple of
+notes tumbling over one another, each one a pearl.  His lion's mane
+caressed the violin; his cheek pressed it like a living thing, closely,
+passionately, and it answered like a creature possessed.
+
+As the strings vibrated to the last dying note, the beauty of it, the
+virtuosity, the abandon, drove the House mad with enthusiasm.  They
+rose to him; they shouted his name eagerly, impetuously.
+
+"Velasco!  Viva!--Velasco!  Bravo--bravissimo!"
+
+Over the packed Theatre the handkerchiefs waved like a myriad of white
+banners.  The bravos redoubled.  The women tore the flowers from their
+girdles to fling on the stage; they lay piled on the white boards about
+him, broken and sweet, their perfume filling the air.
+
+The young Violinist bowed, his hand on his heart, smiled and bowed
+again.  He went out by the little door, and then came back and bowed
+and bowed.
+
+The House rose as one man.
+
+"Velasco!  Velas--co!"  It was deafening.
+
+Suddenly out of the uproar, out of the crowd and the din, from someone,
+from somewhere, a bunch of violets fell at his feet.  He raised them to
+his lips with a smile.  "Viva--Velas--co--o!"  The clapping redoubled.
+
+About the stems of the violets, twined and intertwined again, was a
+twist of paper.  His eyes fell for an instant on the blotted words and
+then the stage door closed behind him.  They were few and almost
+illegible.
+
+"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight?  Kaya._"  The rest was a
+blot.  He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his
+eyes.
+
+"Velasco!  Velasco--Viva!"
+
+When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes
+flashed to the eyes of the girl like steel to a magnet.  They seemed to
+plead, to wrestle with him.
+
+"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight?  Kaya._"
+
+Did her lips move; was it a signal?  Her hands seemed to beckon him.
+He bowed low to the loggia, like one in a trance, once, twice, their
+eyes still together.  And then, suddenly, he wrenched himself away
+remembering the House, the shouting, cheering, waving House.
+
+"Ah--h Velasco--o!"
+
+Lifting his violin he began to play again slowly, dreamily, hardly
+knowing how or why, a weird, chanting Polish improvisation like a love
+song, a song without words.  His eyes opened and closed again.  Always
+that gaze, pleading, wrestling, that flower-like face, those clasped
+hands beckoning.
+
+Who was she--Kaya?  His heart beat and throbbed; he was suffocating.
+With a last wild and passionate note Velasco tore the bow from the
+strings; it was as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up; he
+was gone.
+
+
+
+[1] My God.
+
+[2] A thousand devils!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+In one of the poorer quarters of St. Petersburg there is a street on a
+back canal, and over the street an arch.  To the right of the arch is a
+flight of steps, ancient and worm-eaten, difficult of climbing by day
+by reason of a hole here, a worn place there, and the perilous tilting
+of the boards; at night well nigh impassable without a lantern.  The
+steps wind and end in a tenement, once a palace, spanning the water.
+
+It was midnight.
+
+A cloud had come over the moon, light and fleecy at first, but
+gradually growing blacker and spreading until finally it hung like a
+huge drop-curtain screening the stars.
+
+The street lay in darkness.  From a window in the top of the arch a
+single light was visible, pale and flickering as the ray from a candle;
+otherwise the grey bulk of the building seemed lost in the shadows,
+lifeless and silent.
+
+Suddenly the light went out.
+
+"Hist--st!"  As if at a signal something moved on the staircase,
+creeping forward, and then from the shadow of the tenement, from under
+the archway, emerged other shadows, moving slowly like wraiths,
+hesitating, stopping, losing themselves in the general blackness, and
+then stirring again; shadows within shadows creeping.
+
+Presently a door at the top of the steps opened and shut.  Every time
+it opened, a shadow passed through and another crept forward.  No word
+was spoken, no sound; not a step creaked, not a board stirred.  It was
+a procession of ghosts.
+
+Behind the door was a long stone passage, narrow and dark like a cave.
+The shadows felt the walls with their hands softly, gropingly, but the
+hands were silent like the feet.  Except for a hurried breathing in the
+darkness the passage seemed empty.
+
+Beyond were more steps leading down, and another passage, and then a
+second door locked and barred.  Before this door the shadows halted,
+huddled together.  "Hist--st!"  Instantly the floor under them began to
+quiver and drop, inch by inch, foot by foot, down a well of continued
+blackness.  The minutes passed.  They still dropped lower and lower, so
+low that they were now below the level of the canal; down, down into
+the very foundations of the tenement, once a palace.  All of a sudden
+the darkness ceased.
+
+The room into which the elevator entered was large, low-raftered and
+lighted by a group of candles at the far end.  In the centre was a
+black table, and about the table thirteen chairs also black.  The one
+at the head was occupied by a figure garbed in a cloak and hood, with a
+black mask drawn down to the lips.  The other chairs were empty.
+
+By the light of the candles the shadows now took shape, the one from
+the other, and twelve black-cloaked and hooded figures stole forward,
+also masked to the lips.  They passed one by one before the seated
+mask, touching his hand lightly, fleetingly, as one dipping the fingers
+into holy water, and then around the table to their seats, each in
+turn, until all were placed.
+
+Some of the figures were tall, broad-shouldered and heavy, others small
+and slight.  From the height, the strength or delicacy of the chin, the
+shape and size of the hand, was it alone possible to distinguish the
+sex; the rest was shrouded in a mystery absolute and unfathomable.
+
+As the last and thirteenth chair was filled, the mask at the head
+leaned forward and pointed silently to a dark object at the far end of
+the room about which the candles flickered and sparkled.  It was a huge
+Black Cross suspended as above an altar.  Below it lay an open bier,
+roughly hewn out of the stone, and across it a name in scarlet
+lettering.  The bier was empty.
+
+The twelve other masks turned towards the Cross, reading the name, and
+they made a sign with the hands in unison, a rapid crisscross motion
+over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, ending in the low murmur of a
+word, unintelligible, like a pledge.  Then the first mask to the left
+rose and bowed to the Head.
+
+"Speak," he said, "the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the
+truth.  Of what is this man accused?"
+
+There was a moment of silence, intense and charged with significance;
+then the mask spoke.
+
+"In the province of Pskof there is a Commune.  One night, last winter,
+the peasants rose without warning.  They shot, they maimed, they
+hacked, they burned alive every Jew in the village, men, women and
+children; not one escaped.  The police were behind them.  The
+instigator of the police was--"
+
+The Head raised his hand: "Do you know this for a fact, from personal
+information?"
+
+"I know it for a fact, from personal information."
+
+The first mask took his seat and the second rose, a gaunt figure, the
+shoulders bowed and crippled under the cloak.  His voice was deep and
+full, with tones plaintive and penetrating.
+
+"A month ago there were seven men arrested.  They were taken to 'Peter
+and Paul' and thrust into dungeons unspeakable.  They received no
+trial; they were convicted of no crime; they never saw their families
+again.  Three of these men are now in the mines.  Two are still in the
+cells.  Two are dead."
+
+"Why were they arrested and by whose order?"
+
+"They were workmen who had attended a meeting of the Social Democrats
+and had helped to circulate Liberal papers.  It was done by the order
+of--"
+
+The third mask sprang to his feet.  His fists were clenched, and he was
+breathing hard like one who has been running.
+
+"It is my turn," he cried, "Let me--speak!  You know--you haven't
+forgotten!--On the Tsar's birthday, a band of students marched to the
+steps of the Winter Palace.  They went peacefully, with trust in their
+hearts, no weapon in their hands.  They were surrounded by Cossacks,
+who beat them with knouts, riding them down.  They were boys, some of
+them hardly out of the Gymnasium, the flower of our youth, brave sons
+of Russia ready to fight for her and die."  He hesitated and his voice
+broke.  "At the foot of the Alexander Column, they were mown down like
+grass without warning, or mercy; their blood still sprinkles the
+stones.  Many were killed, hundreds arrested, few escaped.  At the head
+of the Cossacks rode--"
+
+A sigh stirred the room deepening into a groan, and then came a hush.
+Some buried their faces in their hands, weeping silently behind the
+masks.  After a while the Head raised his hand and the fourth rose,
+slowly, reluctantly, speaking in a woman's voice so faint and low it
+could scarcely make itself heard.  The masks bent forward listening.
+
+"Last week," it murmured, "the Countess Petrushka was suspected.  She
+was torn from her home, imprisoned"--The voice grew lower and lower.
+"She was beaten--tortured by the guards; she never returned,--yesterday
+she was--buried."  The voice broke into sobs.  "The man who signed the
+paper was--"
+
+So the trial went on amid the stillness, more and more solemn, more and
+more impressive, as one accusation followed the other in swift
+succession; the candles dropping low in their sockets, the light
+growing dimmer, the room larger and lower and more ghostly, the night
+waning.
+
+In every case the name was left a blank; but in that strange pause, as
+if for judgment, the eyes of the masks sought the bier, resting with
+slow fascination on the words across it, gleaming scarlet beneath the
+flickering candles, vivid and red like blood.
+
+The final accusation had been made.  The twelfth and last mask had sunk
+back in his chair and the leader rose.  The silence was like a pall
+over the table.  When his voice broke through, it was sharp and stern,
+as the voice of a judge admonishing a court.
+
+"You have all heard," he said, "You are aware of what this man has
+done, is now doing, will continue to do.  Does he merit to live?--Has
+he deserved to die?  For the sake of our country, our people,
+ourselves, deliberate and determine.--His fate rests in the hands of
+the _Black Cross_."
+
+He bowed his head on his breast and waited.  No one moved or spoke.  At
+the far end of the room, the candles dripped one by one on the bier,
+falling lower and lower.  Occasionally the wax flared up, lighting the
+darkness; then all was dim.
+
+Suddenly, as from some mysterious impulse, the thirteen sprang to their
+feet, and again their hands flashed out in that curious crisscross
+motion over the breast, the forehead, the eyes, and a murmur went from
+mouth to mouth like a hiss.
+
+"_Cmeptb_--Death!" rising into a sound so intense, so terrifying, so
+muffled and suppressed and menacing, it was as the cry of an animal
+wounded, dying, about to spring.  Falling on their knees, they remained
+motionless for a moment; then, following the leader, each stepped
+forward in turn and took their places about the bier.
+
+The ceremony that followed was strange and solemn; one that no outside
+eye has ever gazed on, no lips have ever dared to breathe.  They stood
+in the shadow of death, their own and another's.  Their heads were
+bowed.  Their bodies shook and trembled.  With hands raised they took
+the oath, terrible, relentless, overpowering, gripping them from now on
+as in a vice; both sexes alike, with voices spent and faint with
+emotion.
+
+"_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself, an instrument
+in the service of Justice and Retribution.  On whomsoever the choice of
+Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of Death shall be fulfilled, by
+mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy.
+And if by any untoward chance this hand should fail, I swear--I swear,
+before the third day shall have passed, to die instead--to
+die--instead._"
+
+The words ended in a whisper, low, intense, prescient of a woe not to
+be borne.
+
+"_I swear--I pledge myself--by mine own hands if needs be._"
+
+A sigh broke the stillness.  The masks stirred, recovered themselves
+and bent over the bier, drawing out, one after the other, a slip of
+paper folded.  There were thirteen slips.  Twelve were blank; on one
+was a Black Cross graven.
+
+They drew in silence; no start, no movement, no trembling of the
+muscles betrayed the one fated.  Twelve drew blanks.  Which of them had
+the Cross; which?  They stared dumbly, questioningly, fearfully from
+one to the other.  One was the assassin.  Which?  The answer was
+shrouded behind the masks.
+
+Lower and lower the candles burned in their sockets, flickering
+fitfully.  The room grew darker and the figures, cloaked and hooded,
+seemed to melt back into the shadows from whence they had emerged, less
+and less distinct, until finally the shadow was one, more and more
+vapoury, filling the darkness.
+
+Suddenly, a scream cut the silence, like a knife rough and jagged.  In
+a twinkling the lights went out.  There was a scuffling, a struggling
+in the corridor, cries and shouting, the sound of wood splintering, the
+blows of an axe,--a rushing forward of heavy bodies and the trampling
+of feet.  The doors burst open, and a cordon of police dashed over the
+wreckage, cursing, shouting--and then stopped on the threshold, staring
+in amazement and panting with mouths wide open.
+
+"Oï!--Oï! Tısyacha chertéi!"
+
+The room was empty, dark, deserted save for an old woman, half-witted,
+who was crouching on the floor before the sacred Icon, rocking herself
+and mumbling.  They questioned her, but she was deaf and answered at
+random:
+
+"Eh, gracious sirs--my lords--eh?  So old--so poor, so wretched!  See,
+there is nothing!--A copeck, for the love of heaven--half a copeck--a
+quarter, only a little quarter!  Ah!  Rioumka vodki[1]--rioumka--vodki!"
+
+The police brushed her aside and searched the room.  In the corner was
+a low cot, hanging on a nail was an old cloak; on the table the remains
+of a black loaf and an empty cup.  They searched and searched in vain;
+tapping the walls, tearing at the stone foundations, peering up at the
+rafters, tumbling over one another in their eagerness.
+
+"Chórt vozmí[2]--!" shouted the captain, "We are on the wrong track.
+The scream came from the other side.  Head them off!  Run, men, run!
+Here, this passage, and then straight ahead!  Devil take the old
+beggar!  Shut up, you hag, or I'll strangle you!--Head them off!"
+
+Gradually the hurrying footsteps died away in the distance.  The
+shouting ceased on the stairs.  It was still as the grave, silent,
+deserted.  The old woman glanced over her shoulder.  She was still
+crouching before the Icon, rocking herself backwards and forwards; the
+beads of the rosary slipping through her fingers one by one; mumbling
+to herself.
+
+Suddenly she stopped and listened.  The rosary fell to the floor.  Her
+eyes watched the wreckage of the doorway closely, suspiciously, like an
+animal before a trap.  The shadows encircled her, they were here,
+there, everywhere; but none moved, none crept.
+
+Snatching a slip of paper from her bosom, she bent over it, her eyes
+dilated, her mouth twisted with agony.  In the centre of the paper,
+clearly graven against the white, was a Black Cross.
+
+She moaned aloud, wringing her hands.  Her teeth gnawed her lips.  She
+clung to the foot of the Icon, sobbing, struggling with herself,
+glancing around fearfully into the shadows.  A gleam from the candle
+fell on her hood; it had slipped slightly and a strand of her hair hung
+from under the cowl.  It sparkled like gold.
+
+She staggered to her feet, still sobbing and trembling, catching her
+breath.  Then she went to the nail on the wall and took down the cloak.
+The woman stood alone in the midst of the shadows; they were heavy,
+motionless.  Glancing to right and left, behind her, to the wreckage of
+the door, to the furthermost corner, back to the Icon again, her eyes
+roved, darting from side to side like a creature hunted.  Clasping the
+cloak to her quivering bosom she approached the candle slowly,
+stealthily.  Her steps faltered.  She hesitated.  She stooped
+forward--another glance over her shoulder, and blowing with feeble
+breath, the spark went out.
+
+
+
+[1] A small glass of brandy.
+
+[2] "The devil take you!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+Velasco sat in his Studio before the great tiled fire-place, dreaming,
+with his violin across his knees.  His servant had gone to bed and he
+was alone.
+
+The coals burned brightly, and the lamp cast a golden, radiant light on
+the rug at his feet, rich-hued and jewel tinted as the stained rose
+windows of Notre Dame.  Tapestries hung from the walls, a painting here
+and there, a few engravings.  In the centre stood an Erard, a
+magnificent concert-grand, open, with music strewn on its polished lid
+in a confusion of sheets; some piled, some fluttering loose, still
+others flung to the floor where a chance breeze, or a careless hand,
+may have scattered them.  Near it was the exquisite bronze figure of a
+young satyr playing the flute, the childish arms and limbs, round and
+molded, glowing rosy and warm in the lamp light.  In one corner was a
+violin stand, a bow tossed heedlessly across it; and all about were
+boxes, half packed and disordered.  The curtains were drawn.  The
+malachite clock on the mantel-piece was striking two.
+
+Velasco stirred suddenly and his dark head turned from the fire light,
+moving restlessly against the cushions.  He was weary.  The applause,
+the uproar of the Mariínski was still in his ears; before his eyes
+danced innumerable notes, tiny and black, the sound of them boring into
+his brain.
+
+"Ye gods--ye gods!"
+
+The young Violinist sprang up and began pacing the room, pressing his
+hands to his eyes to drive away the notes, humming to himself to get
+rid of the sound, the theme, the one haunting, irrepressible motive.
+He walked up and down, lighting one cigarette after the other, puffing
+once, twice, and then hurling it half-smoked into the coals.
+
+Every little while he stopped and seemed to be listening.  Then he went
+back to his seat before the fire-place and flinging himself down began
+to play, a few bars at a time, stopping and listening, then playing
+again.  As he played, his eyes grew dreamy and heavy, the brows seemed
+to press upon them until they drooped under the lids, and his dark hair
+fell like a screen.
+
+When he stopped, a strange, moody look came over his face and he
+frowned, tapping the rug nervously with his foot.  Sometimes he held
+the violin between his knees, playing on it as on a cello; then he
+caught it to his breast again in a sudden fury of improvisation--an
+arpeggio, light and running, his fingers barely touching the
+strings--the snatch of a theme--a trill, low and passionate--the rush
+of a scale.  He toyed with the Stradivarius mocking it, clasping it,
+listening.
+
+His overwrought nerves were as pinpoints pricking his body.  His brain
+was like a church, the organ of music filling it, thundering,
+reverberating, dying away; and then, as he lay back exhausted, low,
+subtle, insinuating ran the theme in his ears, the maddening motive.
+
+Beside him was a stand, with a decanter of red wine and a glass.  The
+wine was lustrous and sparkling.  He drank of it, and lit another
+cigarette and threw it away.  Presently Velasco took from his pocket a
+twist of paper blotted, and studied it, with his head in his hands.
+
+"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight?  Kaya._"
+
+He listened again.
+
+The theme was still running, the black notes dancing; but between them
+intertwined was a face, upturned, exquisite, the eyes pleading, the
+lips parted, hands clasped and beckoning.  That night at the
+Mariínski--ah!
+
+He had searched for her everywhere.  Ushers had flown from loggia to
+loggia, ransacking the Theatre.  Next to the Imperial Box, or was it
+the second?  To the right?--no, the left!  Below, or perhaps on the
+Bel-Etage?--All in vain.  Was it only a dream?  He stared down at the
+twist of paper blotted "_Kaya--to-night._"
+
+Her name came to his lips and he repeated it aloud, smiling to himself,
+musing.  His eyes gazed into the coals, dreamy, heavy, half open,
+gleaming like dark slits under the brows.  They closed gradually and
+his head fell lower.  His hands relaxed.  The violin lay on his breast,
+his pale cheek resting against the arch.
+
+He was asleep.
+
+All of a sudden there came a light tap on the door.  A pause, a tap,
+still lighter; then another pause.
+
+Velasco raised his head and tossed back his hair restlessly; his eyes
+drooped again.
+
+"Tap--tap."
+
+He started and listened.
+
+Some one was at the Studio door--something.  It was like the flutter of
+a bird's wing against the oak, softly, persistently.
+
+"Tap--tap."
+
+He rose slowly, reluctantly to his feet and went to the door.  It was
+strange, inexplicable.  After two, and the moon was gone, the night was
+dark--unless--An eager look came into his eyes.
+
+"Who is there?" he cried, "Who are you?  What do you want?"
+
+A silence followed, as if the bird had poised suddenly with wings
+outstretched, hovering.  Then it came again against the oak: "Tap--tap."
+
+Velasco threw open the door: "Bózhe moi!"
+
+As he did so, a woman's figure, slim and small, hooded and wrapped in a
+long, black cloak, darted inside, and snatching the door from his hand,
+closed it behind her rapidly, fearfully, glancing back into the
+darkness.  The woman was panting under the hood.  She braced herself
+against the door, still clasping the bolt as though a weapon.  Her back
+was crooked beneath the cloak and she seemed to be crippled.
+
+Velasco drew back.  His eagerness vanished and the light died out of
+his face.  "Who in the name of--"  He hesitated: "What in the world--"
+Then he hesitated again, his dark eyes blinking under his brows.
+
+The woman stretched her hands from under the cloak, clasping them.  She
+was fighting hard for her breath.
+
+"Tell me, Monsieur," she whispered, "Tell me quickly--are you married?
+Are you going alone to Germany?"  Her voice shook and trembled: "Oh,
+tell me,--quickly."
+
+"Married, my good woman!" exclaimed Velasco.  His eyes opened wide and
+he drew back a little further: "Why really, Madame--Of course I am
+going alone to Germany.  What do you mean?  How extraordinary!"
+
+"Quite alone?" repeated the woman, "no friend, no manager?  Oh then,
+sir, do me the little favour, the kindness--it will cost you nothing--I
+shall never forget it--I shall bless you all the days of my life."
+
+She took a step forward, limping.  Velasco recovered himself.
+
+"Sit down, Madame," he said, "and explain.  You are trembling so.  Let
+me give you some wine.--Wait a minute.  There,--is it money you want?
+Tell me."
+
+His manner was that of a prince to a beggar, lofty, authoritative,
+kindly, indifferent.  "Sit down, Madame."
+
+The woman shrank back against the door and her hand fled to the bolt as
+if seeking support.  "No--no!" she murmured.  "You don't understand.
+It's not for--not money!  I'm in trouble, danger.  Don't you see?  I
+must flee from Russia--now, at once.  You are going to Germany alone,
+to-morrow night.  Take me with you--take me with--you!"
+
+An irritated look came over Velasco's face.  Was the creature mad?
+"That is nonsense," he said, "I can't take any one with me, and I
+wouldn't if I could.  Besides there is only one passport."
+
+The woman put her hand to her breast.  It was throbbing madly under the
+cloak.  "You could take--your--wife," she whispered, "Your wife.  No
+one would suspect."
+
+"Really, my dear Madame!"
+
+Velasco yawned behind his palm.  "What you say is simply absurd.  I
+tell you I have no wife."
+
+She stretched out her hands to him: "You are a Pole, a Pole!"  Her
+voice rose passionately.  "Surely you have suffered; you hate Russia,
+this cruel, wicked, tyrannous government.  Your sympathy is with us,
+the people, the Liberals, who are trying--oh, I tell you--I must go, at
+once!  After tomorrow it is death, don't you understand,--death?  What
+is it to you, the matter of another passport?  You are Velasco?--Every
+one knows that name, every one.  Your wife goes with you to Germany.
+Oh, take me--take me--I beseech you."
+
+The Violinist stared down at the hooded face.  Her voice was tense and
+vibrating like the tones of an instrument.  It moved him strangely.  He
+felt a curious numbness in his throat and a wave passed over him like a
+chill.  She went on, her hands wrung together under the cloak:
+
+"It isn't much I ask.  The journey together--at the frontier we
+part--part forever.  The marriage, oh listen--that is nothing, a
+ceremony, a farce, just a certificate to show the police--the police--"
+
+Her voice died away in a whisper, broken, panting.  She fell back
+against the door, bracing herself against it, gazing up into his eyes.
+
+Velasco stood motionless for a moment; then he turned on his heel and
+strode over to the fire-place, staring down into the coals.  The sight
+of that bent and shrinking figure, a woman, old and feeble, trembling
+like a creature hunted, unmanned him.
+
+"I can't do it," he said slowly, "Don't ask me.  I am a musician.  I
+have no interest in politics.  There is too much risk.  I can't,
+Madame, I can't."
+
+He felt her coming towards him.  The flutter of her cloak, it touched
+him, and her step was light, like a bird limping.
+
+"You read it?" she whispered, "I saw you at the Mariínski; and
+there--there are the violets on the table, by the violin.  Have you
+forgotten?"
+
+Velasco started: "Who are you?" he exclaimed.  "Not Kaya!"  He wheeled
+around and faced her savagely: "You Kaya, never!  Was it you who threw
+the violets--you?"
+
+His dark eyes measured the shrinking form, bent and crippled, shrouded;
+and he cried out in his disappointment like a peevish boy: "I thought
+it was she--she!  Kaya was young, fair, her face was like a flower; her
+hair was like gold; her lips were parted, arched and sweet; her
+eyes--You, you are not Kaya!--Never!"
+
+His voice was angry and full of scorn: "It was all a dream, a mistake.
+Go--out of my sight; begone!  I'll have nothing to do with anarchists."
+
+He snatched the violets from the table and flung them on the hearth:
+"Begone, or I'll call the police."  He was in a tempest of rage.  His
+disappointment rose in his throat and choked him.
+
+The old woman shrank back from him step by step.  He followed
+threateningly:
+
+"Begone, you beggar."
+
+His heart beat unpleasantly.  Devil take the old woman!  Impostor!  She
+was old and ugly as sin.  He was sleepy and weary.  Why had he taken
+the violets; why had he read the note?  If the girl were not Kaya, then
+who--who?
+
+"Come," he cried sharply, "Be off!"
+
+Suddenly the woman buried her head in her hands.  She began to sob in
+long drawn breaths; they shook her form.  She fell back against the
+Erard, trembling and sobbing.
+
+Velasco stared down at her.  His anger left him like a flash and his
+heart softened.  Poor thing, poor creature!  She was old and feeble,
+and crippled.  He had forgotten.  He had only thought of her, Kaya, the
+girl with the flower-like face.  He shook himself, as if out of a
+dream, and his hand patted the woman's shoulder soothingly.  His voice
+lost its sharpness.
+
+"Don't," he said, "Don't cry like that, my dear Madame--no, don't!  It
+will be all right.  I was hasty.  Don't mind what I said,--don't--no!"
+
+She dashed his hand from her shoulder and broke into passionate
+weeping: "You play like a god," she cried, "but you are not; you are a
+brute.  You have no heart.  It is your violin that has the heart.
+Don't touch me--let me go!  It was so little I asked, so little!"
+
+She struggled away from him, but Velasco pursued her.  His heart
+misgave him.  He grasped her cloak with one hand, the hood with the
+other, trying to raise it; "Stop!" he said, "I can't stand a woman
+crying, young or old.  I can't stand it; it makes me sick.  Stop, I
+tell you!  I'll do anything.  I'll--I'll marry you--You shall go to
+Germany with me.  Only stop for heaven's sake.  Don't cry like
+that--don't!"
+
+He stooped over the shrinking figure still lower; his arm pressed her
+shoulder.  She struggled with him blindly, still sobbing.
+
+"Now, by heaven," cried Velasco, "If you are to be my wife, I'll see
+your face at least.  Be still, Madame, be still!"
+
+The woman cowered away from him, holding out her hands, pressing him
+back.  "I beg of you--I beseech you," she said, "Not my face!  No--no,
+Monsieur!"
+
+She gazed at him in terror, and as she gazed, the hood slipped back
+from her hair; it fell in a golden flood to her shoulders, curling in
+little rings and waves about her forehead, her neck; veiling her face.
+She gave a cry.
+
+Velasco stood for a moment petrified, staring down into the frightened
+eyes that were like twin wells of blue fixed on his own.  Then he
+leaped forward, snatched at the cloak, flung out his arms,--he had
+clasped the air.  She was gone.  The door slammed back in his face and
+the sound of her hurrying footsteps, light as a bird's, fled in the
+distance.
+
+He was all alone in the room.
+
+Velasco rubbed his eyes with his hand and stared about him, strangely,
+mechanically, like a sleep-walker.  "What a dream!  Ye gods, what a
+dream!"  He stretched his limbs yawning and laughed aloud; then he
+paled suddenly.  Was it a dream; or no--impossible.  On the sleeve of
+his black velvet jacket something glistened and sparkled, a thread as
+of gold, fine and slender like silk, invisible almost as the fibrous
+strings of his bow.
+
+He raised it between his fingers.  Then slowly, heavily, he went back
+to his seat before the fire-place and flung himself down.
+
+The lamp-light fell on the Persian rug dimly, flickeringly, the colours
+were soft as an ancient fresco; the jewels were gone, and the coals
+burned lower, dying.  He lit a cigarette and began to smoke.  The
+violin was in his arms.  He played low to himself, dreamily, fitfully,
+his eyes half closed, dark slits beneath the brows.
+
+At his feet lay the violets crushed and strewn; a twist of paper
+creased, blotted.
+
+The light of the lamp grew dimmer.  The malachite clock struck again
+and again.  The night passed.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+Below the Nicholai Bridge, on the right quay of the Neva, stands the
+palace of the Grand-Duke Stepan, a huge, granite structure, massive in
+form and splendid in architecture.
+
+The palace was ablaze with light.  In the famous ball-room thousands of
+electric bulbs twinkled and sparkled, star-shaped and dazzling.  Its
+lofty, dome-like vault, resting on marble columns, was encircled by a
+balcony, narrow and sculptured, from which the music of the band rose
+and fell, soft, entrancing, invisible, as from the clouds.  The walls
+were of reddish marble rounded at the corners.  The floor, shining,
+polished as a mirror, reflected the swaying forms of the dancers as
+they whirled to and fro.
+
+Beyond, on the grand stair-case, the guests ascended slowly in groups
+of twos and threes, flecking the marble with splashes of colour,
+radiant, vivid, like clusters of rose leaves strewn on the steps.  The
+perfume was intoxicating, languorous.  Light trills as of laughter and
+snatches of talk, gay and fleeting, mingled with the rhythm of the
+violins.
+
+The ball was at its height.
+
+In an arch of the stair-case stood a young officer.  He was leaning
+nonchalantly against the carved balustrade; the scarlet and gold of his
+uniform shone against a green background of palms, distinguishing his
+broad shoulders from among the rest.  The palms screened him as in a
+niche.
+
+The officer was swarthy of complexion with a short, black mustache, and
+his eyes, small and near together, roamed carelessly over the throng.
+As the groups approached the head of the stair-case, one after the
+other, he saluted smiling, half heeding, and his eyes roved on still
+more carelessly; sometimes they crossed.
+
+Whenever they crossed, his eyes would remain fixed, intent, for a
+moment, on some one advancing to the foot of the stair-case, eagerly
+watching as the form came nearer and nearer.  Then the muscles relaxed.
+He frowned impatiently, tapping his sword against the carvings.
+
+"Hiss-s-t--Prince Michel!"
+
+The whisper came from behind the leaves of the palms and they swayed
+slightly, trembling as from a movement, or a breath.
+
+The officer started, turning his black eyes swiftly, fiercely on the
+green, and then looked away again.
+
+"Ha, Boris!" he muttered, hardly moving his lips, "How you come
+creeping behind one!--What is it, a message?"
+
+"Hist-st!  Speak low."
+
+The voice was like the faint murmur of crickets on a hot summer's day.
+"The Duke has gone."
+
+"Gone?  What!  The devil he has!"
+
+"Sh-h!--not five minutes ago!  A message came from the Tsar himself.
+He has just slipped away."
+
+The officer gazed straight ahead of him smiling, and bowed to a couple
+ascending the stair-case.  His lips parted as if in greeting.  "Did he
+send you to tell me?"
+
+"No, the Duchess.  She has made some excuse and is receiving alone.  No
+one suspects, not yet; but the guests must be diverted, or else--"
+
+"Be still, Boris, be still, you shake the leaves like a bull.  When
+will he return?"
+
+"By midnight, Prince.  Could you start the mazurka at once?"
+
+"Presently, Boris.  Go and tell my mother I will--presently.  The
+Countess is late, unaccountably late!  Is the snow heavy to-night on
+the quay; are the sledges blocked?  Hiss-st!--There she comes!"
+
+The trembling of the leaves ceased suddenly and the young officer
+leaned forward, his sword clanking, his eyes crossed and fixed on a
+vague white spot in the distant foyer.
+
+"She is coming!  How slowly she moves!  What a throng!--There, she
+comes, white and sweet like a lily, a flower!"  The Prince waved his
+hand; his sword clanked again.  "No, she doesn't see me; her eyes are
+on the ground--and her hair, it gleams like a crown."
+
+The two figures climbing the grand marble stair-case moved forward
+slowly, step by step, mingling with the flash and colour of the crowd,
+lost for a moment at the bend, then reappearing again.  The man,
+evidently a general, was magnificent in his uniform; his breast regal
+with orders and medals, his grey head held high and his form stiff and
+straight.  On his arm was the Countess, his daughter.
+
+She clung to him, her lips were smiling and her white robes trailed the
+marble behind her.  She was like a young queen, charming and gracious,
+bowing to right and to left.  As the groups drew aside to let her pass,
+they whispered together, looking up at the carved balustrade; then the
+crowd closed again.
+
+At the top of the stair-case the Prince sprang forward.  He greeted the
+General hastily, saluting.  Then the watchers behind saw how the
+Countess paused, hesitated, and then, at a few whispered words from the
+Prince, placed her hand on his arm and the two young figures, the white
+and the scarlet, disappeared within the doorway.
+
+The violins rose and fell in a dreamy measure.  From the sculptured
+gallery the sound came mysterious, enchanting, swaying the feet with
+the force of its rhythm.
+
+"Not to-night," said the Countess, "No!"  She drew herself away from
+the arm of the Prince and her lashes drooped over her eyes.  "I am
+tired--later perhaps, Prince."
+
+Her voice, low and remonstrating, was lost in the swing of the waltz.
+With a sudden, swift movement the scarlet and white seemed welded
+together, whirling into the vortex of light and of motion.
+
+No word was exchanged.  They whirled, gliding, twisting in and out
+among the dancers; and suddenly, swiftly, as at a signal, the music
+broke into the measure of the mazurka.  A cry went up from the throng.
+In a twinkling the floor was cleared, the crowd pressed back against
+the columns; under the reddish marble of the dome four couples
+gathered, poised hand in hand.
+
+The uniforms of the officers glowed in the light, rich and scarlet,
+faced with silver and gold.  The gowns of their partners were brocade
+and velvet, purple and crimson, lilac and pearl.  Then from the
+balcony, high up, unseen, the rhythm changed again like a flash, and
+with it the national dance began.
+
+At first the movements were slow, the steps graceful; the feet seemed
+scarcely to move, barely gliding over the floor.  One by one the
+couples retreated, the last left alone; and then interchanging.  The
+music grew faster.  In that moment, when they were left alone, the
+Prince bent his head to the slim, swaying whiteness by his side:
+
+"Why did you come so late?" he whispered, "Where were you?"
+
+The Countess' hand was cold like ice.  She drew it away and danced on;
+then she whispered back:
+
+"The Duke!  Where is he to-night?  He is not here!  Why is the mazurka
+so early, tell me."
+
+They interchanged again.
+
+"Hush," said the Prince, "You noticed?--Don't speak.  He has gone to
+the Tsar.--What is it?  Are you ill?"
+
+"He has--gone?"
+
+"Dance, Countess, dance.  Don't stop; are you mad?  Come nearer.
+Hush!--The Tsar sent for him, but he will be back at midnight.  No one
+must know."
+
+The figure of the mazurka grew stranger and more complicated.  When
+they were thrown together again, the Countess lifted her blue eyes to
+the eyes of the Prince.  They seemed to look at her and yet to look
+past her; they were crossed.  She shivered slightly and turned her
+head.  Her white figure, slender and light as thistledown, floated away
+from him, and then in a moment she was back, their hands had touched;
+they were whirling together faster and faster, the tips of her slippers
+scarcely touching the floor.  She closed her eyes.
+
+"You won't tell, not a soul, I can trust you?" whispered the Prince.
+"Come closer, closer.  There is a plot to-night.  Boris told me.  The
+Secret Service men are everywhere, watching.  Don't be frightened,
+Countess--your hand is so cold.  Can you hear me?  Bend your head--so!
+They hope to make arrests before he returns."
+
+"When--when does he return?"
+
+"Sh--h!  At midnight.  Dance faster, faster--Let yourself go!"
+
+The music broke into a mad riot of rhythm; the violins seemed to run
+races with one another in an intoxication of sound, pulsing,
+penetrating, overpowering.  The white figure twirled in the Prince's
+arms, her gold hair a blot against the scarlet of his sleeve, faster
+and faster.  Her head drooped; her eyes closed again.
+
+The rhythm was alive, tempting, subtle, like a madness in the veins;
+and as they whirled, the rubato, dreamy, sudden, caught them as in a
+leash; the steps faltered, slower, more lingering; slower, still slower
+until the music stopped, dying away into the dome of the vault in a
+last faint echo of sound.
+
+The Countess swayed suddenly.
+
+Her face was white as the lace on her bosom, and her eyes grew dark and
+big, with black shadows sweeping her cheeks.  Others stepped forward to
+the dance; their places were filled and the music commenced again.
+
+"Lean on me," whispered the Prince, "Are you ill?  Countess, lean on my
+arm--so."
+
+His voice was hoarse and excited.  He was swaying a little himself from
+the intoxication of the dance.
+
+"Take me away somewhere, some quiet place," she whispered back.  "Let
+me rest--I am faint."
+
+He drew her after him and the two figures, the scarlet and the white,
+passed under the archway into a salon beyond.  The Prince raised a
+curtain: "This is the Duke's own room," he said in her ear, "Go
+under--be quick!"
+
+The curtain fell heavily behind them and the two stood alone in the
+Grand-Duke's room.  There was a desk in the corner littered with
+papers, a lamp stood beside, heavily shaded, and back in the shadowy
+recesses was a couch.
+
+"Help me there," whispered the Countess, "And then go--go, Prince,
+leave me.  My head is on fire!  See, my cheeks, my hands, how they
+burn?  Help me to the couch."
+
+She staggered and almost fell as they approached it, burying her face
+in her hands.
+
+"I can't leave you," said the Prince.  He was on his knees beside her,
+kissing her hands, trying to draw them down from her face.  "Kaya, what
+is the matter?  Don't hide your eyes--look at me.  Shall I call some
+one?   Are you ill?"
+
+The Countess drew back against the cushions, shuddering, pushing him
+from her: "Don't call any one," she said, "Give me that water on the
+table there."  Her eyes were wide open now and dilated; the hair fell
+disordered in golden rings and waves about the oval of her face.  She
+drew her breath heavily; her bosom rising and falling like waves after
+a storm.  One hand pressed her lace as if to clutch the pulsing and
+steady it; the other held the glass to her trembling lips.
+
+The Prince hovered over the couch.  He was pale and the crossing of his
+eyes was more pronounced than ever.  "Drink now," he whispered
+soothingly as if to a child in trouble, "Drink it slowly.  It is wine,
+not water, and will bring back your strength.  It was the dance; ah, it
+was so fast, so mad.  You were wonderful!  The blood beats in my veins
+still; I can feel the rhythm throbbing, can you?  Speak to me,
+Countess--are you better?"
+
+"Is any one here," said the girl faintly, "Are we alone?"
+
+"Yes, yes, we are alone."
+
+"Will the Duke come in?"
+
+"Not yet.  Put your head back against the cushions and rest.  The
+colour is gone from your cheeks and you are pale like a broken flower.
+Listen--do you hear the violins in the distance?  Your feet move like
+mine; every pulse in your body is tingling and throbbing.  Rest; don't
+speak, and in a moment--Kaya--"
+
+Again the Countess pushed him back, her blue eyes sparkling, flashing
+on his: "Prince, hush!  Don't speak to me like that.  You don't know,
+how can you!  Poor boy--poor boy!  Don't look at me; I tell you, don't
+look at me.  In the dusk it might be the Duke himself, his very self!
+Go--Leave me a little.  If he were good like you--but you will be bad
+too when you are older, wicked, cruel--the blood is there in your
+veins.  You will be like the rest.  Keep away from me, Michel.  Don't
+kiss my hands, not--my--hands!"
+
+The Countess tore them away and gazed at the young officer, her eyes
+wild and dilated.  She gave a little cry as of pain.
+
+"No--no!  I can bear all the rest, but not this--not this!  Get up off
+your knees Prince.  Leave me--leave me for a little while--I must
+think; I must be alone and think."
+
+Her hair sparkled and gleamed against the cushions.  One hand was still
+clasped to her breast.  He stooped over her, panting.
+
+"Come and dance with me, Kaya--dearest.  You are well now; your cheeks
+are like roses.  The wine is so strong when one is giddy.  Let me put
+my arms about you--come!  I love you.  Ah, your hair is like a halo;
+your lips are trembling.  The tears in your eyes are like dew, Kaya."
+
+The Countess rose slowly to her feet.  "Yes, you are like your father
+already," she cried, "Already you are cowardly.  You are strong and you
+think I am weak."  Her head was thrown back; she measured him
+scornfully, "Go and dance, sir.  Leave me, I tell you."
+
+The Prince held out his hands.  "Leave you!" he cried, "No, Kaya, no.
+Come and dance."
+
+"Leave me--leave me."
+
+He came nearer: "Are you still faint?  Will you rest and let me come
+back?  When?  How soon?"
+
+"Leave me."
+
+He took out his watch: "Nearly midnight," he cried, "then the Duke will
+return.  When the clock strikes, Kaya, it will be our dance.  You will
+waltz with me then--once more?  As soon as the clock strikes?"
+
+"Leave me."
+
+"A quarter of an hour, Kaya, no more?  I will send word to Boris.  He
+will guard the curtain so no one will enter, unless it is the Duke
+himself.  As soon as the clock strikes, you promise, we will waltz
+together?"
+
+"Go, Michel, go--I promise."
+
+The Prince made a step forward as though to gather the shrinking figure
+in his arms.  He hesitated; then he moved towards the curtain;
+hesitated again and looked behind him.  Then the heavy folds fell and
+the girl was alone.
+
+She stood for a moment, watching the folds, then she put her hands to
+her eyes and swayed as though she were falling.
+
+"God!" she cried, "Must I do it?  Is there no other--no other
+instrument?"  She sobbed to herself in little broken words, catching
+her breath: "_I vow--I vow--without weakness, or hesitation, or
+mercy--with mine own hands if--needs be._"
+
+She staggered forward, still sobbing, and bent over the desk.
+Something white fluttered and fell from her lace; she smoothed it with
+her fingers; gazed at it.
+
+"God!" she cried, "Oh, God!"
+
+Then she clasped her breast again and drew something out, something
+dark and hard.  She gave a startled glance about the room, covering it
+with her arms; her form shivering as though in a chill.
+
+"_In the name of the Black Cross I swear--I swear--_"
+
+Then she crept back to the couch and sank on the floor behind it,
+covering her face with her hands.  As she did so, the door on the
+corridor opened a crack, then wider, slowly wider, and some one came
+in.  The form was that of a man.  He looked about him.  The room was
+still, deserted, and he gave a sigh of relief, hurrying over to the
+desk.  When he turned up the lamp, the light revealed a bundle of
+papers which he laid on the desk, examining them one after the other,
+putting his face close to the lamp, studying, absorbed.
+
+The face was that of the Grand-Duke Stepan; his beaked nose, his grey,
+upturned mustache, his eyes small and crossed.  They were fixed on the
+sheets.  All of a sudden he started violently.
+
+Beside him on the desk, just under the lamp, was a slip of paper.
+There was nothing on the paper but a Black Cross graven, above it:
+_Cmeptb_.
+
+As the Duke gazed at it, his face grew ashen, his mouth twitched, his
+eyes seemed fairly to start from his head; his knees knocked together.
+He glanced fearfully around, trying vainly to steady his hands.
+
+"_Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy, by mine own hands if
+needs be, I swear--_"
+
+Was it a voice shrieking in his ears?  He cowered backwards, huddled
+together, shivering.
+
+"_I swear--_"
+
+Suddenly there came the click of a revolver.  A shot rang out; a moan.
+The Duke stood motionless for a second; then he faltered, twisted and
+fell on his face with his arms outstretched.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+It was snowing steadily.  The drops came so thick and so fast that the
+city was shrouded as in a great white veil, falling from the sky to the
+earth.  Drifts were piled in the streets; they were frozen and padded
+as with a carpet, and the sound of sleigh-bells rang muffled in the
+distance.  It was night and dark, with a bitter wind that came
+shrieking about the corners, blowing the snow, as it fell, into a riot
+of feathery flakes; sudden gusts that raided the drifts, driving the
+white maze hither and thither, flinging it up and away in a very fury
+of madness.  The cold was intense.
+
+Before the door of a house on the little Morskaïa stood a karéta.  It
+was large and covered.  Behind and on top several boxes were strapped,
+protected from the snow by wrappings of oil-cloth, and on the driver's
+seat was a valise.
+
+The horses pawed the snow impatiently, tossing their heads and snorting
+whenever the icy blast struck them.  The wind was sharp like a whip.
+Occasionally the karéta made a sudden lurch forward; then, with
+guttural oaths and exclamations, the animals were reined back on their
+haunches, slipping and sliding on the ice, plunging and foaming.  The
+foam turned to ice as it fell, flecking their bits.  The breath from
+their nostrils floated out like a vapour, slender and hoary.
+
+The driver, muffled in furs, swung his arms against his breast, biting
+his fingers, stamping his feet to keep them from freezing.  The karéta,
+the driver and the horses were covered with snow, lashed by it, blinded
+with it.  They waited wearily.  From time to time the driver glanced up
+at the door of the house and then back at the carriage, shaking his
+head and muttering fiercely:
+
+"Stand still, you sons of the devil, stand still!  You prance and shy
+as if Satan himself had stuck a dart in you!  Hey, there!--Back, back,
+you limb!  Will the Bárin never come?"
+
+He swore vigorously to himself under his beard, and the flakes fell
+from him in a shower.  After a while the door of the house opened; some
+one appeared on the steps and a voice called out:
+
+"Bobo, eh Bobo!  Is that you, are you ready?  Heavens, what a night!"
+
+"All ready, Monsieur Velasco, all ready."
+
+"The boxes on?"
+
+"Yes, Bárin."
+
+"You took my valise, did you?"
+
+"Yes, Bárin."
+
+The figure disappeared for an instant within the doorway and the light
+went out; then he reappeared, carrying a violin-case under his arm,
+which he screened from the wet with the folds of his cloak, carefully,
+as a mother would cover the face of her child.  He leaped to the
+carriage.
+
+"All right, Bobo, go ahead.  Wait a moment until I get the latch open.
+Ye gods!  I never felt such cold.  My fingers are like frozen sticks.
+There!  Now, the Station: Warchávski Voksál--as fast as you can!  Ugh,
+what a storm!"
+
+The Violinist flung himself back in the corner of the karéta, huddling
+himself in the furs; the windows were shut and his breath made a steam
+against the panes.  The carriage was black as a cave.
+
+"There ought to be another fur!" he said angrily to himself.  His teeth
+were chattering and his whole body shivered against the cushions.  "I
+told Bobo to put in an extra fur.  The devil now, where can it be?"
+
+He groped with his hands, feeling the seat beside him, when all of a
+sudden he gave an exclamation, alarmed, half suppressed, his eyes
+staring into the darkness, trying vainly to penetrate.
+
+What was it?  Something was there, moving, breathing, alive, on the
+seat close beside him.  Gracious heaven!  He wasn't alone!  Velasco
+crouched back instinctively, putting out both hands as if to ward off a
+blow.  He listened, peering.  Surely something breathed--there, in the
+corner!  He could make out a shadow, an outline.--No, nothing--it was
+nothing at all.
+
+His pulses beat rapidly; he groped again with his hands, slowly,
+fearfully, hesitating and then groping again.  It was as though
+something, someone were trying to elude him in the darkness.  His
+breath came fast; he listened again.
+
+Something cowered and breathed--"Bózhe moi!"  He gripped his lip with
+his teeth and hurled himself forward, grappling into the furthermost
+recesses of the karéta.  His hands grasped a cloak, a human shoulder, a
+body.  It dragged away from him.  He clutched it and something shrank
+back into the shadows.  His eyes were blind; he could see nothing, he
+could hear nothing; he could only feel.  It was breathing.
+
+His hand moved cautiously over the cloak, the shoulder.  It resisted
+him, trying vainly to escape; and then, as the carriage dashed on
+through the darkness, he dragged the thing forward, nearer--nearer,
+struggling.  The breath was on his cheeks.  He felt it distinctly--the
+rustle of something alive.
+
+Velasco clenched his teeth together, clutching the thing, and held it
+under the window-pane, close, close, straining forward.  As he did so
+the rays of a street lamp fell through the glass, a faint, pale light
+through the steam on the panes; a flash and it was over.  Velasco gave
+a cry.
+
+Beside him was a woman, slight and veiled, and she was crouching away
+from him, holding her hands before her face, panting, frightened, even
+as he was.
+
+"Who are you?" cried Velasco, "What are you?  Speak, for the love of
+heaven!  I feel as if I were going mad.  Speak!"
+
+He shook the cloak in his trembling grasp and, as he did so, a hand
+pressed into his own.  It was bare, and soft like the leaf of a rose.
+He grasped it.  The fingers clung to him, alive and warm.  Velasco
+hesitated.  Then he dropped the hand and from his pocket he snatched a
+match, striking it against the side of the carriage.  It sputtered and
+went out.  He struck another.  It flickered for a moment and he held it
+between his hands, coaxing it.  It burned and he held it out, gazing
+into the corner, coming nearer and nearer.  The eyes gleamed at him
+from behind the veil; nearer--He could see the oval of the face, the
+lips.  Then the match went out.
+
+"Kaya--Kaya!"
+
+He snatched at her hand again in the darkness and held it under the
+fur.  "You came after all," he whispered hoarsely, "I thought I had
+dreamed it.  Speak to me; let me hear your voice."
+
+He felt her bending towards him; her shoulder touched his.  "You
+promised--I hold you to your promise."
+
+"Yes; yes!"
+
+"Have you changed your mind?"
+
+"No.--Don't take your hand away.  No!  It is horrible, the storm and
+the blackness.  Hear the wind shriek!  The hoofs of the horses are
+padded with snow; they are galloping.  How the carriage lurches and
+sways!  Are you afraid, Kaya?  Don't--don't take your hand away."
+
+Velasco's voice was husky and forced like a string out of tune.  It was
+strange, extraordinary to be sitting there in that dark, black cave,
+his hand clasping the hand of a woman, a stranger.  The two sat silent.
+The horses plunged forward.
+
+Suddenly they stopped.  Velasco started as out of a dream and sprang to
+the window, wiping the steam from the panes with his sleeve.
+
+"Bobo!" he cried, "Madman!  This is not the Station.  Where are you
+going, idiot--fool!"
+
+His voice was smothered suddenly by a hand across his lips.
+
+"Hush, Monsieur, have you forgotten?  The driver knows, he is one of
+us.  Come with me; and I pray you, I beseech you, don't speak, don't
+make a sound; step softly and follow."
+
+In a moment the girl was out of the carriage and Velasco behind.  Her
+veil fluttered back; her cloak brushed his shoulder.  The storm and the
+wind beat against them.  He ran blindly forward, battling with the
+gale; but fast as he went she went faster.  He could scarcely keep up.
+In the distance behind them, the carriage and horses were lost in a
+white mist, a whirl.
+
+"Here," she cried, "Bow your head, quick, the arch--and then through
+the gate--run!  Take my hand in the court--let me lead you.  I know
+every step.  Run--run!  You waited so long; we shall be late.  There is
+barely time before the train.  Ah, run, Monsieur--run!"
+
+The two figures dashed through the alley and into an open cloister,
+running with their heads bowed against the wind, struggling with the
+snow in their eyes, in their throats; blinded, panting.
+
+"Stop!" gasped Velasco, "I can't run like this.  Stop!  You mad thing,
+you witch!  Where, where are you going?  Stop, I tell you!"
+
+She dragged at his hand.  "Come--a moment further.  Come, Monsieur.
+Ah, it is death--don't falter.  Run!"
+
+She caught at a little door under the wall and pushed it madly.  It
+yielded.  He sprang in behind her; and then he stood blinking, amazed.
+
+They were alone in the dark, ghostly nave of a huge Church.  The long
+rows of columns stretched out in the distance, tall and stately like
+pines in a forest; the aisles were broad and shadowy, leading far off
+in a distant perspective to the outline of an altar and a high cross
+suspended.  They were dim, barely visible.
+
+"Where are we?" he murmured, faltering.  "Kaya, speak--tell me."
+
+She put up her face close to his and he saw that her lips were
+quivering, her eyes blurred with tears.  Her veil was white with the
+snow, like a bride's.  She dragged at his hand, and he followed her
+dumbly, their footsteps echoing, a soft patter across the marble of the
+church.
+
+It was absolutely dark; only on the far distant altar three candles
+were lighted, three sparks, red and restless, like fireflies gleaming.
+Otherwise the nave, the chancel, the transepts were as one vast
+blackness stretching before them.  They fled on in silence; their goal
+was the candles.
+
+At first the space before the altar seemed empty, deserted, like the
+rest of the Church; but as they approached, nearer and nearer, three
+forms seemed to melt from the back of the choir and stood on the steps;
+two were figures in cloaks; the third was a priest.  His surplice shone
+in the shadows against the outline of the columns.  He mounted the
+steps of the altar and stood with his face to the cross.  They seemed
+to be waiting.
+
+To Velasco the sound of his footsteps echoed and reverberated on the
+marble, filling the darkness.  The noise of them was terrible.  He
+would have covered his ears with his hands, but the girl urged him
+forward.  The soft fingers crept about his own like a vine, clinging,
+irresistible.
+
+"Come," she breathed, "ah, come, Monsieur--come!"
+
+Then he followed, moving forward hurriedly, blindly, like one
+hypnotized.  His senses were dulled; his will was inert.  When he came
+to himself he was kneeling beside her on the marble, and he heard the
+voice of the priest, chanting slowly in Slavonic:
+
+
+"Blessed is our God always, and ever, and unto ages of ages.
+
+"In peace let us pray to the Lord for the servant of God, Velasco, and
+for the hand-maid of God, Kaya, who now plight each other their troth,
+and for their salvation. . . .  That he will send down upon them
+perfect and peaceful love. . . .  That he will preserve them in oneness
+of mind and in steadfastness of faith. . . .  That he will bless them
+with a blameless life. . . .  That he will deliver us from all
+tribulation, wrath, peril and necessity. . . .  Lord have mercy!
+
+"Lord have mercy!"
+
+
+He listened in bewilderment; was it himself, or his ghost, his shadow.
+He tried to think, but everything melted before him in a mist.  The
+girl by his side was a wraith; they were dead, and this was some
+strange unaccountable happening in another world.  The marble felt cold
+to his knees.  Velasco tried to move, to rise, but the hand of the
+priest held him down.  The voice chanted on:
+
+
+"Hast thou, Velasco, a good, free and unconstrained will and a firm
+intention to take unto thyself to wife this woman, Kaya, whom thou
+seest here before thee?"
+
+
+And in the pause, he heard himself answering, strangely, dreamily, in a
+voice that was not his own:
+
+"I have, reverend Father."
+
+"Thou hast not promised thyself to any other bride?"
+
+"I have not promised myself, reverend Father."
+
+Then he felt the hand of the priest, pressing the crown down on his
+forehead; it weighed on his brow, and when he tried to shake it off he
+could not.
+
+
+"The servant of God, Velasco, is crowned unto the hand-maid of God,
+Kaya.  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
+Spirit.  Amen."
+
+"The servant of God, Kaya, is crowned unto the servant of God, Velasco.
+In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
+Amen."
+
+"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour.
+
+"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour.
+
+"O Lord our God, crown them with glory and honour!"
+
+
+Velasco passed his hand over his face; he was breathing heavily.  The
+crown glittered in the darkness.
+
+
+"And so may the Father and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, the all-holy,
+consubstantial and life-giving Trinity, one God-head, and one Kingdom,
+bless you, and grant you length of days, . . . prosperity of life and
+faith: and fill you with all abundance of earthly good things, and make
+you worthy to obtain the blessings of the promise: through the prayers
+of the holy Birth-giver of God, and of all the saints.  Amen."
+
+"Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit now, and
+ever, and unto ages and ages."
+
+"Amen."
+
+
+The chanting ceased suddenly, and there was silence.  Then he felt
+something falling against him, and he staggered to his feet, dragging
+the girl up with him.  She trembled and shook, pushing him back with
+her hands; her eyes were full of terror, staring up into his, the eyes
+of her husband.  Again everything grew misty and swayed.
+
+He was signing a paper; how his fingers quivered; he could scarcely
+hold the pen!  The priest drew nearer, and the two cloaked figures.
+They all signed; and then he felt the paper crackling in the bosom of
+his coat, where he had thrust it.  They were hurrying back through the
+dark, ghostly nave.
+
+They were running, and the sound of their footsteps seemed louder and
+noisier than before; they ran side by side, through the door in the
+wall, the cloisters, the arch, bowing their heads; and there was the
+carriage, a great blot of whiteness, the horses like spectres.  The
+snow came whirling through the air in sharp, icy flakes, cutting the
+skin.  The wind grew fiercer, more violent.
+
+With a last desperate effort Velasco dashed forward, pursuing the veil,
+the fluttering cloak--and the door of the carriage closed behind them.
+In that moment, as it closed, the horses leaped together, as twin
+bullets from the mouth of a cannon; galloping, lashed and terrified
+through the night.  It was still inside the karéta.
+
+Suddenly Velasco was conscious of a voice at his elbow, whispering to
+him out of the silence: "Thank you, Monsieur, ah, I thank you!  We
+shall be at the station directly; then a few hours more and it will
+be--over!  You will never see--me--again!  I thank you--I thank you
+with all my heart."
+
+The voice was soft and low, like a violin when the mute is on the
+strings.  He could scarcely hear it for the lurching of the carriage.
+The horses gave a final plunge forward, and then fell back suddenly,
+reined in by an iron hand, and the karéta came to a standstill.
+
+The station was all light and confusion; porters were rushing about,
+truckmen and officials, workmen carrying coloured lanterns.  "Not a
+second to spare!" cried Velasco, "Send the trunks after me,
+Bobo--Here--my valise!"
+
+He snatched up his violin-case, and the slim, dark-veiled figure darted
+beside him.  "If we miss it!" he heard her crying in his ear, "I shall
+never forgive myself!  I shall--never--forgive myself!"
+
+"We shan't miss it!" cried Velasco, "I have the tickets, the passports
+for you and for me!  Here--to the left!  The doors are still open!"
+
+An official rushed forward and took the valise from Velasco's hand:
+"Here, sir--here!  First class compartment!"
+
+Velasco nodded breathlessly, and the two sank down on the crimson
+cushions; the door slammed.  "Ye gods!"  They were alone in the
+compartment; they were saved!  Velasco gave a little laugh of triumph.
+He was hugging his violin close in his arms, and opposite him sat the
+slim veiled figure.  She was looking at him from behind the veil--and
+she was his wife.  "Ye gods!" he laughed again.
+
+"Why are you trembling?" he said, "We are safe now.  I told you I had
+the passports.  Are you cold, or afraid?--You shake like a leaf!"
+
+The girl put out her hand, touching his.  "Did you see?" she breathed,
+"There--on the platform--Boris, the Chief of the Third Section!--He was
+watching!"
+
+Velasco laughed again aloud, happily, like a boy: "What of it?  Let him
+watch!  Put up your veil, Kaya.  Great heavens, what a night it has
+been!  My heart is going still like a hammer--is yours?  Lean back on
+the cushions--put up your veil.  Let me see you once,--let me see you!
+Look at me as you did in the Theatre--Kaya!  Don't tremble."
+
+"He is there," breathed the girl, "I see him behind the curtain!  He is
+talking to the official--The train is late and it doesn't start.  Why
+doesn't it start?"
+
+She gave a little moan and peered out through the veil: "Something has
+happened, Monsieur!  The officials are clustered together,
+talking--there is some excitement!  They are gesticulating and several
+are pointing to the train!  What is it--what is it?"
+
+Velasco laughed again; but the laugh died in his throat.  The two
+turned and gazed at one another with wide, frightened eyes.
+
+"The Chief of the Third Section--see!  He is going from compartment to
+compartment--He is looking at the passports!  He is coming here--here!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+"Your passports, Monsieur--Madame?"
+
+Velasco thrust his hand slowly into the breast pocket of his coat and
+drew out the precious papers.  His manner was cold and indifferent, and
+his eyes had narrowed into sleepy slits again beneath the heaviness of
+his brows.
+
+Kaya was leaning back on the cushions with the veil drawn closely over
+her face.  She was tapping the panels of the door with a dainty,
+nervous foot.  Neither glanced at the official.
+
+The Chief of the Third Section was in evening dress with a fur cloak
+thrown hastily over his shoulders.  He would have passed for an
+ordinary citizen on his way to a ball if it had not been for the
+strangeness of such an attire in a railway station, and the cluster of
+anxious, humble officials bowing and gesticulating about him.  The
+Chief examined the passports closely and at some length; then he tossed
+an order over his shoulder in a quick, sharp tone to the group of
+officials, and one hurried away.
+
+"This lady, Monsieur, she is your wife?"
+
+The voice of the Chief, as he turned to Velasco, was like the passing
+of a brush over wool.  The Violinist shuddered.
+
+"Certainly sir, she is my wife," he returned curtly.  "It is so stated
+on the paper, I believe."
+
+"It is," said the Chief, "The writing is plain, quite clear.  Will you
+be good enough to raise your veil, Madame?"
+
+Kaya shrank back.  "My veil!" she stammered.  She half rose from her
+seat, supporting herself, with her hands pressed down on the cushions,
+gazing up at the waiting official.  "No--my veil!--What do you mean?"
+
+"I am sorry to trouble you," said the Chief sharply, "but I said: 'your
+veil.'  Kindly raise it at once.  Ha!--Why shouldn't you show your
+face, Madame?"
+
+His burly form filled the doorway and the white of his shirt front,
+half screened by the fur, gleamed under the electric light.  He seemed
+enormous.
+
+Velasco's brows lifted suddenly until his eyes were wide open and
+blazing: "Stand back, you impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "Stand away
+from my wife!  How dare you?"
+
+"Come!" said the Chief.  His voice was still sharper.  "No nonsense,
+Monsieur.  The veil must be raised and immediately; you are keeping the
+whole train back.  What do you suppose I am here for?"  There was
+menace in his tone as he took a step forward.  "Now, Madame, will you
+raise it, or shall I?"
+
+Kaya retreated slowly to the farther side of the compartment.  "Stop,"
+she whispered to Velasco.  "Don't get angry; don't do anything, it is
+useless.  Come back in the shadow."
+
+Then she turned and faced the official defiantly, throwing up the veil.
+Her face was very pale, her eyes were blue and dark, like two pools
+without a bottom, and her lips pressed together, quivering slightly.
+Velasco stared at her for a moment and drew a step nearer, laying his
+hand on her shoulder.  He was trembling with rage.
+
+"Are you satisfied now, you cur?" he cried, "Look at her then.  You
+will never see another face as beautiful, not in the whole length and
+breadth of your cursed country.  Look--while you have the chance!  By
+heaven, whoever you are, chief of the devil himself, I'll report you
+for this--I'll--"
+
+A shrill whistle cut through the torrent of words, and in another
+moment the Chief had stepped back, and the under officials came
+crowding through the door of the compartment.
+
+"Arrest them both," cried the Chief shortly, "Get them away at once and
+don't let them out of your hands.  'Peter and Paul,' quick!  The woman
+is--"  He whispered something hoarsely.
+
+In a second the two were surrounded, their hands were chained; they
+were bound like sheep and dragged, first one, then the other, to a
+covered sleigh at the rear of the station.
+
+"Put them in--hurry!" cried the Chief, "Gag the fellow; don't let him
+speak!  Is the woman secure, so she can't scream, or moan?  Take them
+off!"
+
+The sleigh started, and the two lay side by side on the floor, jostled
+by the lurching of the runners, their flesh cut and bruised by the
+ropes, their mouths parched and panting behind the gags.  They could
+not stir, or moan, or make a sign.  They were helpless.
+
+When the sleigh stopped in the grim inner court of the fortress, they
+were carried out into the darkness, and borne like animals through
+long, damp passages, down innumerable steps and dim windings until
+finally a door clicked and opened.  They were thrust inside, their
+bindings were cut, and the door clicked again, slamming in its socket
+with the sickening crash of steel against steel; the sound
+reverberating hard and metallic like a blow against the eardrum,
+finally dying away in the distance, echo upon echo until all was silent.
+
+The girl lay still on the floor where they had left her.  She had
+swooned, and as she returned to consciousness slowly, gradually, her
+breath came in little gasps through her parted lips and she moaned as
+she lay.  Velasco had dragged himself to his knees and was peering
+about him, feeling with his hands in the dim waning light.  He was
+muttering to himself in little outbursts of anger and rebellion,
+rocking his arms to and fro.
+
+"What a hole!  What a beastly place!  The floor is wet; ugh!--The walls
+are dank and shiny--things are crawling!  Good heavens, something ran
+over my foot!--It must be a rat, scurrying--scampering!  Sapristi!
+There's another!  What a scrape to be in--what a scrape!"
+
+The girl lifted her head and looked at him, straining her eyes for the
+outline of his shoulders, the mass of his dark curls.  He had turned
+half away and was wringing his hands, feeling them and exclaiming to
+himself.  She crept towards him and stretched out her hand, touching
+his shoulder.
+
+"Monsieur--Ah, Monsieur Velasco!"
+
+He shuddered away from her: "You, is it you!  Are you alive?  I thought
+you were dead!  Mon Dieu, I thought I was shut in with a corpse!  It is
+frightful, horrible!  I have suffered!  God, how I have suffered--the
+torture of the damned!"
+
+"Monsieur!"
+
+"My hands are cut; I know they are cut!  Look, can you see,--are they
+covered with blood?  I am sure I feel it trickling!--Look!"
+
+"No--no, Monsieur, there is no blood."
+
+"I tell you I feel it--and my shoulder, my arm--I shall never be able
+to play again!  I am ruined--ruined--and for what?  Why did you come to
+me?  Why didn't you go to someone else--anybody?"
+
+"Ah forgive me, forgive me."  The girl crept closer and laid her hand
+on his shoulder, pathetically as if half afraid.  "I shouldn't have
+gone to you, but--listen, Monsieur--let me tell you--let me explain!  I
+thought there was no danger, not for you, otherwise--Oh, do believe me,
+not for the world would I have done it!  I knew you were an artist;
+Bobo told us you were going to Germany--I thought--Can you ever forgive
+me?"
+
+Her voice broke a little and she was silent.
+
+Velasco went on rocking himself, feeling his arms, his hands, his
+fingers at intervals.  "Don't talk," he said, "You make me nervous.
+You did very wrong; you ought never to have come to me.  I hate
+anarchists; I never could bear them; and now they take me for one!  I
+shall live here all my days--and my Stradivarius, my treasure--Heaven
+knows where they have put it--lying on the platform of the station, or
+perhaps broken, or stolen!  I shall never see it again, never!  Ah, it
+is cruel--it is not to be borne!  Don't speak, I tell you, I can't bear
+it!  You shouldn't have coaxed me!--Ugh! these rats--brr--did you feel
+it?"
+
+The girl gave a muffled cry.  She had shrunk away in the corner, but
+now she crouched forward, her eyes dilated, staring into the darkness.
+
+"A rat, Monsieur?  Ah, it is so dark--I feel things,
+crawling--crawling; and the damp oozes down from the walls.  I am
+frightened--frightened!"
+
+The last words were a whisper; her throat swelled and she was choked,
+trembling with terror.  She put out her hand and touched something
+soft--it slid from her and ran.  She cried out faintly.
+
+"Come here," said Velasco, "Come nearer!  The rats won't hurt you.
+Rest on my cloak, poor child, are you cold?  Where are you?--Let me
+touch you!"
+
+"Here," said the girl, "I can feel the edge of your cloak; don't put it
+around me--no!  I deserve to suffer, but you--no wonder you hate me!
+Don't put it around me."
+
+"Come nearer," said Velasco, "I can't see you in this devilish
+darkness.  Are you crying?"
+
+"No, Monsieur, no, let me tell you--it was your playing, your playing
+that night.  I saw you, and then the thought came to me--I will go to
+him, he will help me; and then--I came."
+
+"Your teeth click together like a castanet rattling," said Velasco,
+"You tremble like a string under the bow.  Come closer.  There--one ran
+over my sleeve, curse the creature!  Did you feel him, the vermin?  Put
+my cloak close around you."
+
+"No--no--not your cloak!  You are shivering yourself, you need it.
+Don't--I pray you!"
+
+There was a moment of silent struggle between them.
+
+"Keep still," said Velasco, "My hands are cut, but they are strong
+still, and yours are like wax, soft as rose leaves.  Hold it around
+you; don't push it away.  Now, lean against me; they won't touch you."
+
+The struggle continued for a moment; then the form of the girl relaxed,
+her head drooped and he felt the light rings of her hair brushing his
+cheek.  She started and then sank back again.
+
+"Can you hear me?" said Velasco, "Perhaps there are spies, people
+listening; no one can tell.  Put your lips to my ear.  Why were we
+arrested, do you know?  What have you done?--Ah, these rats!  Make a
+noise with your feet; scuffle as I do, that will drive them away.--"
+
+"I--I can't tell you," whispered the girl, "No--it was nothing, don't
+ask me.  You will know in the morning."
+
+"Tell me now," said Velasco, "When we talk, the darkness seems less,
+not so terrible.  I like to feel you breathing against me; your form is
+so little and light.  Don't move!  Put your fingers in mine now and
+tell me.--Why won't you tell me?--Speak louder."
+
+The girl trembled and he put his arm closer about her.
+
+"Are you afraid of me?" he said, "My tempers are nothing; they are like
+a gust and it is over.  I didn't mean what I said.  When I think of my
+violin, that it is lost, gone forever perhaps, that my hands are so
+numb and so stiff, it makes me frantic.  I feel as if I should go mad
+for a moment, locked in here; and I never could bear the dark, never;
+not when I was a child.  I see things; sounds ring in my ears.  I want
+to cry out, and storm, and fling myself against the walls; do you?  It
+is my nature, my temperament, I was always like that.  My nerves are on
+fire.  Stay by me.  When I feel your hand--Kaya, your hair is like
+silk.  Don't move.  What was it you did?"
+
+"Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right.  I could not help
+myself, I could not.  I had taken the oath.  I was only the instrument."
+
+"The what--?" said Velasco.  "If you were an instrument I should take
+you in my arms and play on you.  The strings would be the strands of
+your hair and my bow would caress them.  The tones would be thrilling
+and soft like your voice; your cheek would be the arch on which my
+cheek rests.  I would shut my eyes and play on you, and you would
+answer me, and we would sway together, your heart on my breast.--Ah!
+Where am I?  Forgive me, I thought for a moment--Don't be frightened, I
+thought you were my Stradivarius.  I was dreaming.--What were you
+saying?  An instrument--I don't understand."
+
+"Let me go," cried the girl, "don't hold me!  Take your cloak from my
+shoulders.  You wouldn't understand if I did tell you.  You are an
+artist and understand nothing but your art.  What do you know of the
+conditions we are struggling against, the suffering, the horrible
+suffering of our country?"
+
+"Don't be angry," said Velasco, "I talk to my violin sometimes like
+that.  There was nothing to flare up about; I was dreaming, I tell you!
+What do you know of such things yourself?  Ugh!  Leave them alone,
+child; leave all ugly things alone!  Come back, or the rats will run
+over you."
+
+"It is terrible the things that happen," whispered the girl.  She was
+on her knees and she was pushing him away with her hands.  "I never
+knew until lately, but now--now I have met the Revolutionists; they
+have talked to me, they have told me.  They are splendid men.  Some of
+them are extreme, so am I.  I hate the Tsar.  I loathe him; I loathe
+them all!  I would kill them all if I could."
+
+She was trembling violently: "It is true that I have--"  And then she
+began sobbing, struggling with Velasco as he drew her to him.
+
+"Be still," he said, "Hush!  Your voice was like a trumpet then.  You
+are not like a girl at all; you are like a soldier fighting for his
+flag.  What are you talking about?  Hush!  Let me wrap you again.  The
+rats are getting worse!  Creep closer and rest on my arm.  The Tsar is
+the little Father; we must respect him and speak low about him always."
+
+The girl caught her breath, sinking back on his shoulder, wrapped in
+his fur.  She tried to resist him, but his arm was strong and encircled
+her, his hand clasped her own; it was supple and the wrist was like a
+hinge.  There was a power, an electric force in his touch, a
+magnetism--she shut her eyes, yielding to it.  She was like a violin
+after all; if he chose to play on her with his bow!  Ah--she quivered.
+
+"Monsieur," she said low, "You don't understand.  You are a Pole and
+you care nothing for Poland; how could you understand?  And yet you
+play--my God, how you play, as if you had cared and suffered more than
+any one in the whole wide world.  Have you ever suffered?"
+
+"No," said Velasco, "What should there be to make me suffer?  Not until
+to-night!--Ugh, this is torture, horrible!"
+
+"Have you ever twisted and writhed in an agony of mind that was like
+madness because--"
+
+"Of course," said Velasco, "After my concerts I am always like that.
+It is--"  He shuddered.  "A black depression creeps over one.  Bózhe
+moi!  It is awful!  Is that what you mean?"
+
+"No," she said, "that is not what I meant.  Tell me, Monsieur, have you
+ever cared for any one?"
+
+Velasco stretched his cramped limbs and yawned.  "Never, any one
+particularly," he said, "that I can think of.  I used to like my old
+master in Warsaw; and I have friends; good gracious!  All over Russia
+and Germany I have friends.  You don't mean that?"
+
+The girl stirred uneasily against his arm.
+
+"Was that another rat?" she said, "I felt something run over my dress."
+
+"Draw the cloak to your chin," whispered Velasco, "Huddle yourself in
+it.  There, are you warm?  Put your head down again.  One moment you
+are like a boy ready to fight the universe, the next you shake at the
+sound of a rat.--Kaya!"
+
+"Yes, Monsieur?"
+
+She shivered, clinging to him.
+
+"What did you say?  Say it again; don't tremble like that."
+
+"I would die," she whispered, "A thousand times I would die rather than
+have brought this on you.  If I had known--if I had guessed!"
+
+"Your hair is like down," said Velasco, "a soft, golden fluff.  I can't
+see it, or you; are you there?  I shouldn't know if I didn't feel you
+breathing, and the touch of your head and your hand.  Go to sleep; I
+will watch."
+
+She murmured and stirred in his arms.
+
+"Yes, yes, I forgive you.  I never was angry.  If only they haven't
+hurt my violin, my Stradivarius!  If they do, I shall drown
+myself!--But don't think of it; don't speak of it.  Be still and sleep."
+
+She murmured again.  He laid his cheek to her hair and they sat silent,
+the girl half unconscious, Velasco staring out into the darkness, his
+face white and set.
+
+There was a stirring of something within him impossible to fathom;
+something apart from himself, strange and different, like the birth of
+a soul; a second personality, unknown, unrevealed.  His heavy eyes
+gleamed through the slits.  The round of his chin stiffened; his mouth
+took new lines.  The luxurious artist personality of the musician was
+dormant for the first time in his life; his virile and masculine side
+had begun to awaken.  The muscles of his arm swelled suddenly and he
+felt a strange beating in his heart.
+
+This girl, this stranger!  She was helpless, dependent on him and his
+strength.  He would guard her and protect her with his life.  His arms
+were around her and no one should take her from him--no one!  Not the
+Tsar himself!  She was breathing, she was there; she was a woman and he
+was a man, and his strength was as the strength of a lion.  What harm
+could befall her?
+
+He bent his head on his breast and his lips touched her hair.  Across
+the sodden floor of the prison, suddenly, came the first rays of dawn
+falling aslant, touching the shadows, the two figures crouching, the
+rats as they fled.
+
+Velasco drew the cloak closer about the sleeping form of the girl, with
+a tender, protecting gesture.  His eyes were alert.  He had forgotten
+himself; he had forgotten his violin; he had forgotten his art.  He was
+facing the sunlight grim and determined.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+The office of the Polkovnik was small and narrow, low, with ceiling and
+walls hewn out of the rock.  At one end was a window barred, looking
+out upon a court; at the opposite end the door.  On either side of the
+door stood a soldier in Cossack uniform, huge fellows, sabred, with
+their helmets belted under their chins, and their fierce, black eyes
+staring straight ahead, scarcely blinking.
+
+In the centre of the room was a table, and before the table an officer
+seated, also in uniform, but his head was bare and his helmet lay on
+the litter of papers at his elbow.  He had a long, ugly face with a
+swarthy complexion, and eyes that were sharp and cold like steel,
+piercing as the point of a rapier and cruel.  He was tossing the litter
+of papers impatiently, examining one after another at intervals, then
+pushing them back.  He was evidently waiting, and as he waited he swore
+to himself under his breath, glancing from time to time at the
+Cossacks; but they stood stiff and immovable like marble, looking
+neither to right nor to left.  Presently the officer leaned forward and
+touched a bell on the table.
+
+"There is no use waiting any longer," he said curtly, "Bring them in."
+
+The hammer of the bell was still tinkling when the door swung back
+suddenly on its hinges and two people, a man and a woman, were half
+led, half dragged into the room; the Cossacks prodding them on with the
+blunt edge of their sabres.
+
+"Brr--" said the officer sharply.
+
+In a flash the Cossacks had leaped to their niches, their forms rigid
+and motionless, only the tassels on their helmets quivering slightly to
+show that they had stirred.  The man and the woman were left beside the
+table.
+
+"Your names?" demanded the officer, "The woman first."
+
+The girl drew herself up wearily; her face was wan in the morning
+light, and her hair fell about her shoulders, dishevelled, a bright
+golden mass, curling about her forehead and ears in little rings and
+spirals like the tendrils of a vine.  Her eyes were proud and she
+looked the officer full in the face, her hands clenched.  Her voice
+rang full and scornful.
+
+"My name is the Countess Kaya and I am the daughter of General
+Mezkarpin.  What have you to say to me?"
+
+"We have a good deal to say to you, Madame," retorted the Cossack, "if
+it is true that you are the Countess.  I never saw her myself, but the
+Chief will be here presently.  He knows her very eye-lashes, and if you
+have lied--"
+
+"I have not lied," cried the girl, "How dare you speak to me like that!
+Send for my father, do you hear me?  At once!  The General Mezkarpin."
+She repeated the name distinctly and her shoulders stiffened, her blue
+eyes flashed.  "A friend of the Tsar as you are aware.  Be careful!
+What you do, what you say, every act, every word shall be reported to
+him."
+
+"If you have not lied," continued the Cossack smoothly, "it will be
+still worse for you, far worse!"  He began smiling to himself and
+twirling his mustache.  "If it is true, this report, I doubt if you
+leave here alive, Madame, unless it is for the Mines.  You have an ugly
+crime at your door.  How you ever escaped is a wonder!  The Chief has
+been on your track for some time, but he was late as usual; he is
+always slow about arresting the women, especially if they are--"
+
+The Cossack showed his teeth suddenly in a loud laugh, leering at the
+slim, young figure before him.  The girl blanched to the lips.
+
+"A crime!" she said, "What crime?"
+
+Then she put out her hand slowly, shrinkingly, and touched the figure
+beside her as if to make sure that he was there.
+
+The man was standing dazed, staring from the girl to the Cossack and
+back again.  Mezkarpin's daughter, the great Mezkarpin, the friend of
+Nicholas!  And accused of--what?  It was a mistake--nothing!  He passed
+his hand over his eyes.
+
+"Is this woman your wife?" said the officer shortly, "Answer."
+
+"She is my wife."
+
+"Where are the papers?"
+
+The man unbuttoned his coat and felt in his breast pocket, the left,
+the right; then the pockets of his vest.
+
+"I have them here, somewhere," he stammered, "Where in the devil!  They
+were here last night!"
+
+He felt again desperately.  "They seem to be gone!  What can have
+become of them?  I put them here--here!"  He searched again.
+
+"Curious!" said the official, "Ha ha!"
+
+The prisoner stared at him for a moment blinking.  "You impudent
+scoundrel!" he cried, "She is my wife, papers or no papers.  Ask
+her!--Kaya!"
+
+The girl held herself straight and aloof.  She was gazing down at the
+litter of papers on the table; her face was white and her lips were
+clenched in her teeth.
+
+"Kaya--tell him!  The papers are lost!  God, they are gone somehow!
+Tell him--"
+
+The girl released her lip and her voice came out suddenly, ringing,
+clear as if the room had been large and the Cossack deaf; it seemed to
+burst from her throat.
+
+"I am not his wife," she said, "He is mistaken.  He is telling you that
+out of kindness.  Monsieur is a stranger to me, until last night a
+perfect stranger.  I don't know him at all.  Don't believe what he
+says.  You see for yourself there are no papers.  Is it likely?"
+
+The tones of her voice seemed to die away suddenly and a drop of blood
+oozed from her lip.  She wiped it away and clinched her teeth again,
+fiercely, as if hedging her words.
+
+"Kaya!" cried the man.  "She is my wife, I tell you, she is my wife!
+The priest married us.  I can prove it."
+
+"Silence," cried the Cossack.  "What do we care if you are married or
+not.  You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does
+not concern you.  Silence, I tell you.  Answer my questions.  What is
+your name?"
+
+"My name is Velasco."
+
+"Ha--the musician?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Very good!  Try again.  There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every
+one knows, and he isn't here.  Your name?  Tell the truth if you can."
+
+"My name is Velasco."
+
+"The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!--You two make a pair
+between you.  Velasco!  The Wizard of the bow!  The one all Russia is
+mad over!  Ye saints!  I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard
+him.  Bah--you anarchist dog!  Now, damn you, answer me straight or
+I'll make you.  Your name?"
+
+The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking
+his fist.  "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it?
+Quick--your name?"
+
+The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window,
+half closing his eyes.  The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the
+lids.
+
+"Will you answer or not?"
+
+Velasco swayed a little and a dark gleam shot out between the slits:
+"If I had been brought up a soldier," he said, "instead of a musician,
+I should take pleasure in knocking you down; as it is, my muscles were
+trained to much better purpose.  This interview, sir, is becoming
+unpleasant.  I will trouble you to send for my Stradivarius at once.
+Some of your men stole it, I fancy, last night.  It is worth its weight
+twice over in gold.  There is not another like it in the country,
+perhaps in the world.  The next time his majesty, the Tsar, requests my
+presence, I shall inform him that the violin is here in his fortress,
+stolen by a slovenly, insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from
+a block of wood, or a note from a pin head."  His eyes drooped again.
+The Cossack examined him narrowly.
+
+"If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khoroshó[1]! then prove
+it.  There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a
+fiddle.  Brr--Ivanovitch, go for it.  No. 17,369, in the third
+compartment, by the wall.  That isn't a bad idea!"  He rubbed his hands
+together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the
+one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your
+impudence.  You can't cheat me."  He laughed loud and long.
+
+Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming,
+his mind far away.  The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a
+roof, rolling off, leaving no sign.
+
+The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly.  She pressed
+them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white;
+then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the
+confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her
+brow and her cheeks.
+
+"Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle.
+Now, for a lark!  Brr--Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical--ha
+ha!  No, stop!  I will keep the fun to myself.  Shut the door.  Is the
+Chief here yet?"
+
+"No, Gospodin."
+
+"Sapristi!  Never mind, shut the door--shut the door!"
+
+Velasco roused suddenly.  He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then
+he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his
+hands.  His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little
+leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief.
+
+"My violin, my treasure!  My beloved, give it to me!  You brute, you
+great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you!  Out
+of my way!  Let it go--or I'll strike you!--Let go!"
+
+He snatched the case to his breast and carried it over to the table,
+opening it, unfolding the wrappings.  They were silken and heavy.  The
+violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening
+yellow, golden and resinous.  He touched it tenderly, lifting it,
+examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been
+bruised.
+
+The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their
+helmets.  The girl watched him with wistful eyes.  She understood.  It
+was the artist-temperament in full command.  The man had vanished, the
+musician was in possession.  He was rocked by it, swayed, overpowered,
+a slave.  His eyes saw nothing; his ears heard nothing; his mind was a
+whirl, a wonderful chaos of sound, of colour, of notes dancing, leaping.
+
+The bow was in his hand, the violin was on his breast.  He closed his
+eyes, swaying, pressing it to his cheek.  The eyes of the girl filled
+with tears.  It was just as he had said.  He was talking to it and it
+was answering him, softly at first, faint and low, his fingers scarcely
+touching the strings; then the tones burst out, full, radiant, like a
+bud into bloom, rushing, soaring, echoing up to the walls of the room,
+striking the stone, bounding back, dying away.  He was drunk, he was
+mad; he was clasping the thing, forcing it, pressing it, swaying it,
+and the strings leaped after his will.
+
+She fell back against the wall, steadying herself, and her eyes drank
+in the sight of him as her ears the sound--the slight, swaying figure,
+the dark head bowed with his hair like a mane, the arm with the bow,
+the abandon of the wrist, the white, flashing fingers.  She drew a
+quick breath.
+
+The official sat open-mouthed.  The cruelty had gone from his face, the
+sharp, steely look from his eyes.  He was grasping the desk with both
+hands, leaning forward, staring as one who is benumbed, hypnotized.
+
+Velasco played as he had never played before.  He was playing for his
+life, his identity, his freedom; and suddenly into the tones crept
+another consciousness, subtle at first, scarcely heard, something
+fragile and weak, new born as if struggling for breath.  He stopped and
+passed his hand over his eyes, dropping the bow.  Where was he!  What
+had happened!  Was it his life, or hers, he was playing to save?--Oh
+God!
+
+He gazed at her across the room, into the two deep wells of her eyes,
+and again his muscles swelled, his chin stiffened.  He stood there
+gazing, struggling with himself; his one personality against the other;
+the hair falling over his brows, the violin clasped in his arms.
+
+Suddenly there came a knock at the door.
+
+The Cossack gave a long sigh.  He went up to Velasco slowly and took
+his hand, the hand with the bow.
+
+"Great heaven!" he cried, "I am exhausted, I am limp as a rag!  There
+is not another soul in Russia, in the world, who can play like that!
+You are marvellous, wonderful!  All they said was too little.
+Monsieur--there is no further doubt in my mind, I ask your forgiveness.
+You are, you can be no other than he--Velasco."
+
+The knock was repeated.
+
+"Come in!" cried the Cossack.  His voice was hoarse and he cleared his
+throat: "Come in!"
+
+The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by
+the Chief of the Third Section.  The Cossacks saluted with their hands
+stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet
+them, bowing.  All the assurance was gone from his manner; he was now
+the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior.  The General
+waved him aside.  His face was florid and red; he was a large man,
+heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone
+of the floor as he moved.  The girl was still leaning against the wall.
+
+When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching
+out her hands:  "Father!" she cried, "Father!"  And then she stopped
+suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast.
+
+"Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris.  He
+spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic,
+staccato.
+
+"Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"--"Is this the woman?"
+
+"It is, General."
+
+"She was in the Duke's room?"
+
+"She was."
+
+"You found her in the train?"
+
+"In the train, last night, with this man."
+
+"You say she is an anarchist?"
+
+"We have known it for some time, sir."
+
+The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes
+were red like blood.  He approached the girl and stood over her, his
+fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself
+with a difficult effort.
+
+"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart,
+detached.  "Is it true?  Are you mixed up with this infernal
+Revolutionary business?  My daughter!  An anarchist against the Tsar?
+Look me in the eyes and answer.  May all the curses of heaven strike
+you if it is true."
+
+The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing
+straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her.  "It is true," she said,
+"I am an anarchist."
+
+The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in
+blotches.  His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came
+nearer.
+
+"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You!  Answer me, on your soul--the
+truth.  It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan?  You?"
+
+The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair
+fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering.  Still she looked
+at him and signed an assent.
+
+"You--you shot the Grand-Duke?"
+
+Her lips moved and she bowed her head.
+
+The General stood paralyzed with horror.  He was like one on the verge
+of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move.  Then he
+drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger
+and passion growing in his eyes.
+
+"You are no daughter of mine!" he cried stammering, "You are a
+murderess, a criminal!  You have killed the Grand-Duke--in his own
+house you have killed him!"
+
+"Father!--Father!"
+
+He gasped and put his hand to his throat.  "Be still!  I am not your
+father.  You are no child of mine.  I curse you--with my last breath I
+curse you.--Do with her as you like."
+
+He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting.  "Take
+her away--Take her out of my sight.  Send her to Siberia, to the
+Mines--anywhere!  Let her pay the uttermost penalty!  Let her die!  She
+is nothing to me!--Curse her!--Curse her!--Curse her!"
+
+The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on
+either side of the girl.  She shrank back.
+
+"Father!" she cried.
+
+"Chórt vozmí, I am not your father!  Take her away, I tell you."  With
+a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from
+the room.
+
+Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin.  He was shivering as
+though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words,
+the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife.  He dropped
+his violin on the litter of papers.
+
+"By heaven!" he cried, "What a terrible thing!  What brutes you all
+are!  She is my wife--mine!  No matter what she has done, she is my
+wife.  Let go of her you savages!--Kaya!  Help her, some of you--don't
+let them take her!  They are dragging her away!--Kaya!  Stop them--stop
+them!"
+
+He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting
+with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron,
+they held him in a vice.  The Chief sprang forward.  They held him, and
+the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows.
+
+She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense
+look, gazed deep into Velasco's.  They were dark and blue, full of
+anguish.  Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they
+were thanking him, they were saying goodbye.  He struggled towards her.
+A moment--and she was gone.
+
+The great door swung back on its hinges, the latch clicked.
+
+A faint, low cry came back from the distance.
+
+Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one
+official to the other.  He tried to speak and could not.  The cry came
+back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed
+to stop beating.
+
+"You can go now," said the official.  "We know who you are, and there
+is nothing against you."
+
+He whispered something to the Chief.  They handed him his violin and
+his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door.  He followed them
+out, up the winding steps, through the passages, out into the court,
+stumbling blindly.
+
+"You can go--there is nothing against you."
+
+He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the
+ground.  He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other.
+He was shivering.
+
+The cry followed him out into the street.  It rang in his ears.  Her
+eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness.  He could feel
+them.  He was dumb, he was helpless.
+
+Oh God--the cry again!  It was low, it was faint, it was broken with
+pain.  He stumbled on.
+
+
+
+[1] Very well.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"
+
+"He is, sir."
+
+"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."
+
+"Very well, Bárin, but--he is composing.  He has been composing for
+days--Monsieur knows?"
+
+"I know," said the Manager.
+
+He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a
+blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward
+joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled
+now and he snapped his fingers.
+
+"Go ahead, Bobo, you coward.  If he insists on hurling a boot at your
+head, why dodge it--dodge it!  Or wait, stay where you are.  I will
+announce myself."
+
+The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping
+lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager
+opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind
+him.
+
+Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco.  His
+shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless.  The
+Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis:
+
+"Eh, Velasco, is that you?"
+
+The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced
+the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows.  His face
+was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes
+were haggard and bloodshot.
+
+"A hundred devils take you!" he cried, "What are you doing here?  I
+told Bobo to keep people out, the treacherous rascal!  For heavens sake
+go and leave me in peace; I tell you Galitsin, go!  Don't come near me."
+
+The Manager laughed: "Composing, Velasco?"
+
+"Can't you see it?  Of course I am composing.  Go!"  He waved his hand
+towards the door.  "Don't talk."
+
+"You must talk with me," exclaimed the Manager briskly, "Now Velasco,
+there's no use, you will have to listen to reason.  The way you are
+behaving is outrageous, abominable!  All your German engagements have
+gone to the wall.  My desk is piled high with letters; the agents are
+furious.  In Leipzig the Gewandhaus was entirely sold out a fortnight
+ago.  In Dresden there isn't a seat left.  Why the money loss is
+something tremendous!  I had a telegram this morning; they are nearly
+crazy.  You must keep your engagements; you will ruin your career
+utterly, absolutely.  You will never dare show your face in Germany
+again.  And here you sit composing--composing!  Good heavens, you look
+like it!  You look as if you had been on a bat for a week!  You look
+drunk, Velasco, drunk!  I never saw such a change in a man!  Come--wake
+up!  Rouse yourself!  Take the train tonight."
+
+The Manager laid his arm on the young Musician's shoulder and patted it
+soothingly.
+
+"Take the night train, Velasco.  You ought to be playing, not
+composing!  You know that as well as I do.  If you go tonight, you will
+reach Leipzig in time.  It makes a difference of thousands of roubles
+to me as well as to you; remember that.  You musicians have no
+conscience.  Come, Velasco--are you listening?"
+
+The Musician stood listless, his hands in his pockets, staring down at
+the bricks of the chimney piece.
+
+"What is that?" he exclaimed, "Were you speaking?--Oh, damn you,
+Galitsin, why don't you go?  I'm not a slave!  I won't stir one step in
+Germany if I don't feel like it; I swear I won't!  Cancel everything,
+everything.  Heavens!  I couldn't play if I tried!  You managers are
+like the old man of the mountain; you want to sit on my neck and lash
+me on as if I were Sinbad.  All for the sake of a few dirty roubles to
+put in your pocket!  What do I care?  I won't do it, I tell you.  Go
+and manage somebody else; get another slave.  Petrokoff over there in
+Moscow!  He will be like a little lamb and eat out of your hand.  Now
+be off--be off!  Your voice is like a bee buzzing."
+
+Velasco threw himself back in his chair again and blinked defiantly up
+at the Manager through his bloodshot eyes.  They were heavy and weary,
+he could scarcely keep them open; his fingers strummed against the arm
+of the chair and he began to whistle to himself softly, a quaint little
+Polish air like a folk-song.  Galitsin shook his head frowning:
+
+"You are a perfect child, Velasco, when this mood gets hold of you.
+There is no doing anything with you.  Very well then, I wash my hands
+of the whole business.  Answer your own letters and satisfy the agents,
+if you can.  Tell them you are ill, dying, dead--anything you please."
+
+"Bah!" said Velasco, "Don't answer them at all."  He shut his eyes.
+
+The Manager gave a hasty glance about the Studio and then he bent his
+head to the chair, whispering:
+
+"You have acted badly enough before, heaven knows, but never like this.
+It is not the composing.  Where is the score?--Not a note!"  He
+breathed a few words in Velasco's ear and the Musician started up.
+
+"How did you know; who told you?  The devil take you, Galitsin!"
+
+The Manager smiled, running his hands through his short, crisp curls.
+"Everyone knows; all St. Petersburg is talking about it.  When a man of
+your fame, Velasco, insists on befriending a Countess, and one who is
+the daughter of Mezkarpin, and an anarchist to boot--"
+
+He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know.  I saw her at
+the Mariínski.  She stared at you as if she were bewitched.  You had
+every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks.  It
+is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to
+Siberia now, just as she is.  A lesser man, one whose career was less
+marked!  By heaven, Velasco, what is it?--You are choking me!"
+
+"Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is?  Tell me!
+By God, will you tell me, or not?--I'll force it out of you!"
+
+"Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager.  "Sit down, Velasco!  Don't
+be so excitable, so violent!  No wonder you play with such passion; but
+I am not a violin, if you please.  Take your hands off my throat and
+sit down."
+
+"Where is she?"
+
+Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the
+mantel-piece.  "What is the matter with you, Velasco?  Any one would
+suppose you were in love with her!  Better not; she is doomed--she is
+practically dead."
+
+"Dead!"
+
+"Don't fly up like that!--Sit down!  I saw the Chief of Police
+yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you."
+
+"Is she dead, Galitsin?"
+
+"No, but she will be.  She is sent with a gang to the Ékaterinski
+Zavad.  They are gone already, chained together, and marching through
+the snow and the cold.  It is thousands of miles.  A Countess, who has
+undoubtedly never taken a step in her life without a maid--who knows!
+She is frail, she won't live to get there."
+
+The room was still for a moment and suddenly a coal fell from the fire
+to the hearth with a thud, flaring up.  Then it broke into ashes.
+Presently the Manager continued:
+
+"She shot the Grand-Duke Stepan, they say.  I don't know.  The thing
+has been hushed up for the sake of Mezkarpin, poor man!  The Chief told
+me he had had a stroke in the prison and may not recover.  The girl
+must be a tigress!--Velasco!  Are you asleep?--Wake up!--Velasco!"
+
+"What mines did you say, Galitsin?"
+
+"The Ékaterinski Zavad."
+
+"They have started already?"
+
+"Yesterday."
+
+"The Chief told you that?"
+
+"The Chief himself told me."
+
+"Did he mention the route?"
+
+"By the old road through Tobolsk, I dare say, the usual one.  Come,
+Velasco, don't brood over it!"
+
+"Were they chained?"
+
+The Musician shuddered and moved his limbs uneasily.  "Chains,
+Galitsin?  Fancy, how horrible!  How they must clank!  It must be
+maddening--jingling, rattling with every step--Ah!"
+
+The Manager shrugged his shoulders.  "When a woman undertakes to murder
+the Grand-Duke Stepan, what else can she expect?  Mezkarpin is a friend
+of the Tsar, otherwise she would have been hung, or shot!--Why of
+course!  The Chief said she was utterly brazen about it.  She asked
+over and over if he were dead, and then said she was glad.  Lucky for
+you, Velasco, they recognized you, they didn't take you for an
+accomplice; you would never have touched a violin again.  All the
+same--"
+
+He glanced around the Studio again and his voice grew lower: "The Chief
+gave warning.  You are to leave Russia, he said.  Velasco--listen to
+me!  He said you must leave Russia at once, to-night--do you hear?"
+
+The Manager leaned forward and shook the Musician's shoulder angrily.
+"Velasco, do you hear?--If you won't go for your Art, you must go for
+your safety.--Do you hear me?  You must!"
+
+"I hear you," said Velasco, "You needn't bellow in my ear like a bull!
+If I must, I suppose I must.  Go and write your letters and leave me in
+peace."
+
+"Shall I tell the agents you are coming?"
+
+"Tell them anything you like.  Pull me about on wires like a little tin
+puppet, and set me down anywhere in Europe, just as you please.  I feel
+like an automaton!  You will be winding up my Stradivarius next with a
+key.  Now go, or I won't stir a step!"
+
+The Manager took up his gloves and cane; he seemed uneasy.  "You swear
+you will start to-night, Velasco?"
+
+"Be off!"
+
+"By the night train?  I shall meet you at the station."
+
+"Very well.  Good-bye."
+
+"The Night Express?"
+
+The Musician closed his eyes and nodded.  "You cackle like an old
+woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb.  Send me up Bobo, if
+you see him, will you?--Good-bye."
+
+Galitsin took out his watch.  "In three hours then," he said, "Au
+revoir!  You have plenty of time to pack.  Eleven thirty, Velasco."
+
+The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp,
+curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair.  Presently the door
+opened again.
+
+"Is that you, Bobo,--eh?  Come in.  I sent for you.  Didn't you tell me
+your wife was ill?"
+
+"Yes, Bárin."
+
+"You would like to go to her to-night?--Well, go.  I shan't need you.
+Don't jabber, you make my head spin.  Go at once and stay until
+morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the
+table--that is all.  Just take yourself off and quietly."
+
+After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps,
+scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor.  Velasco
+leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring
+into the coals.
+
+"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not.  You can't trust
+people.  He is better out of the way."
+
+The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from
+his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him.
+There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the
+creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to
+another, the fall of a heavy boot.  Then presently the curtain was
+drawn aside and he reappeared.
+
+No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish
+costume.  The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore
+a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his
+trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn
+at the heel and patched.  It wasn't Velasco--it was a gypsey, a
+tattered, beggarly ragamuffin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on
+his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles.
+
+He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glancing about him, and
+stood before the mirror examining himself.  At the first glance he
+laughed out loud; then he clapped his hand over his mouth, listening
+again.  But he was alone, and the form reflected in the mirror was his
+own, no shadow behind.  He snatched up the lamp and held it close to
+the glass, peering at himself from the crown of his close-cropped head
+to the patch on his boot.  He gazed at the scarf admiringly; it was red
+with tassels, and he patted it with his free hand.
+
+"That is how they do it!" he cried softly, laughing.  "It is perfect.
+I don't know myself!  Ha ha!--I would cheat my own shadow.  If the door
+should open now, and Galitsin should come in--the ox!  How he would
+stare!  And Bobo, poor devil, he would take me for a thief in my own
+Studio.--God, what is that?--a step on the stairs!  The police!  They
+come preying like beasts and seize one at night.  She told me!"
+
+The gypsey's hand trembled and shook, and the wick of the lamp flared
+up.  Great heaven!  The step crept nearer--it was at the door--the door
+moved!  It was opening!
+
+He dropped the lamp with a crash; the light went out and he staggered
+back against the wall, clutching his scarf, straining his ears to hear
+in the darkness.
+
+The door opened wider.
+
+Some one slipped through it and closed it again, and the step came
+nearer, creaking on the boards.  He heard the soft patter of hands
+feeling their way, the faint sound of a breath.  It was worse than in
+the carriage, because the room was so large and the matches were on the
+table, far off.  There was no way of seeing, or feeling.  The step came
+nearer.
+
+If it was a spy, he could grapple with him and throw him.  The gypsey
+took a step forward towards the other step, and all of a sudden two
+bodies came together, grappling, wrestling.  Two cries went up, the one
+loud, the other faint like an echo.
+
+"Hush, it is I, Velasco!  You are soft like a woman!  Your hair--It is
+you, Kaya!  It is you!  I know your voice--your touch!  Did you hear
+the lamp crash?  Wait!  Let me light a candle."
+
+He stumbled over to the table, feeling his way, clutching the soft
+thing by the arm, the shoulder.
+
+"It is you, Kaya, tell me, it is you!  Damn the match, it is damp, how
+it sputters!--Put your face close, let me see it.  Kaya!  Is it you,
+yourself?"
+
+The two faces stared at one another in the flickering light, almost
+touching; then the other sprang back with a cry of dismay.
+
+"You are a gypsey, you are not Velasco!  The voice is his,--Dieu!  And
+the eyes--they are his, and the brows!  Let me go!  Don't laugh--let me
+go!"
+
+"No--no, Kaya, come back!  It is I.  They told me you were chained with
+a gang; and were walking through the snow and the cold to the mines.
+How did you escape; how could you escape?"
+
+"Yes--it is you," said the girl, "I see now.  It was the costume, and
+your hair is all cut.  I thought you had gone in the train to Germany."
+She shuddered and clung to his hand.  "Why do you wear that?  Why
+aren't you gone?  The Studio was vacant, I thought--deserted, or I
+shouldn't have come!"
+
+Velasco gazed at her, chafing the cold, soft fingers between his own.
+"Oh God, how I have suffered!  I tried to reach you, I did everything,
+and then I shut myself up here waiting--I was nearly mad.  Kaya--you
+escaped from the fortress alone, by yourself?  Did they hurt you?  You
+cried out; it rings in my ears--that cry!  It has never left me!  I
+shut myself up and paced the floor.  Did they hurt you?"
+
+The girl looked over her shoulder: "It was horrible, alone," she
+breathed, "Some of the guards, the sentinels, belong to us.  Hush--no
+one knows; it must never be guessed.  To-night, after dark, someone
+whistled--one was waiting for me in the corridor with the keys; the
+others were drugged.  They handed me on to someone outside; I was
+dropped like a pebble over the wall.  Then I ran--straight here I ran."
+
+She put her hand to her breast.  "Why aren't you gone?  Go now,
+to-night.  Leave me here.  As soon as it is light I shall be missed,
+and then--"  She shuddered and her hand trembled in his, like a bird
+that is caught, soft and quivering.
+
+Velasco looked at her again and then he looked away at the candle: "I
+won't leave you," he said, "and the railroad is useless.  They would
+track us at once.  When I put this on--"  He began smoothing the scarf.
+"I meant to follow you through the snow and the cold to the mines, like
+a beggar musician."
+
+He laughed: "You didn't know me yourself, you see?  I was safe."
+
+"Monsieur Velasco, you were coming to me?  Ah, but they told you a lie!
+I--"  She breathed a few words to him softly.
+
+"They would have--"
+
+She nodded.
+
+"When?"
+
+"To-morrow at daybreak."
+
+"In spite of Mezkarpin?"
+
+She broke down and buried her face in her hands.
+
+Velasco began to pace the room slowly.  "If you had a costume like
+mine," he said, "If your hair were cut--"  Then he brightened suddenly
+and ran forward to the girl, snatching her hands from her eyes,
+dragging her to her feet.
+
+"What a fool I was!" he cried, "What an idiot!  Quick, Kaya!  My chum
+is an artist; he is off now in Sicily, painting the rocks, and the sea,
+and the peasants; but his things are all there in his room next to
+mine, just duds for his models you know.  Go--go!  Put on one like
+mine.  You shall be a boy.  We will be boys together, gypsies, and play
+for our living.  We will walk to the frontier, Kaya, together."
+
+The two stared at one another for a moment.  He was pushing her gently
+towards the curtain.  "Quick!" he whispered, "Be quick!"  They both
+listened for a moment.
+
+Then he pushed her inside and dragged down the curtain: "Now, I must
+pack," he cried, "Now I must prepare to meet Galitsin, the round-eyed
+ox!  Ha ha!--He will wait until he is stiff, and then he will fly back
+here in a rage.  Good God, we must hurry!"  He began opening and
+shutting the drawers, taking out money and jewels from one, articles of
+apparel from another.
+
+"No collars, no neck-ties!" he said to himself, "How simple to be a
+gypsey!  A knapsack will hold all for her and for me.--Kaya!--Bózhe
+moi!"
+
+The curtain was drawn back and in the doorway stood a boy.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+The two gypsies gazed at one another in silence.
+
+The small, picturesque figure in the doorway wore velveteen trousers of
+green, old and faded, a black jacket rusty, with the sleeves patched,
+and a scarlet sash tied loosely about the waist.  On the back of her
+cropped yellow curls was a velveteen cap, rakishly tipped, and she
+stood debonair beneath the folds of the curtain with a laugh on her
+lips.
+
+"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "How you stare, Monsieur!  Will I do?  What sort
+of a boy do I make; all right?  Are you satisfied, sir?"
+
+She made a little rush forward, eluding Velasco, and stopped before the
+mirror with her hands boyishly deep in her pockets, glancing back over
+her shoulder and pirouetting slowly backwards and forwards.
+
+"The hair looks a little rough!" she exclaimed, "I cut it with a pair
+of shears, or perhaps it was a razor, who knows!  Ma foi!  It is not
+like a girl's at all, so short!  What my maid would say!  You would
+never take me for a Countess now, would you--would you?"  She patted
+her curls and pulled down her jacket in front, turning first to one
+side, then to the other.  "What a nice pair of gypsies we make, sir,
+eh?  Come and look at yourself.  You are taller than I, and bigger, and
+you have such shoulders, heavens!  Mine are not half the size.  You
+mustn't bully me, you know, not if I am a boy.  You took the best
+jacket, the biggest, and look what I have--such a little one, only
+patches and rags!  And see what boots!"
+
+She held out one slim, small foot in a peasant's boot and inspected it,
+pointing to the sole with little exclamations of horror.  "I took the
+only ones I could find, and see--"  Then she looked at him coaxingly
+with her eyes half veiled by her lashes, sideways, as if afraid of his
+gaze.
+
+"Do I make a nice boy, Monsieur, tell me?  Am I just like a gypsey, the
+real ones?  Is it right, do you think?"  She faltered.
+
+Velasco took a step forward and looked down at the reflection in the
+mirror, the profile averted, the flush on her cheek, the curls on her
+brow, the boyish swagger and the hands in the pockets, the cap on the
+back of the tilted head, the laughing eyes, half veiled.  He towered
+above her, gazing.  And presently her eyes crept up to his under the
+lashes and they met in the mirror.  She drew slowly away.
+
+"How little you are!" he cried, "You never seemed so little before; in
+a cloak, in a veil, you were tall.  And now, stand still, let me
+measure.  Your cap just reaches my shoulder.  Kaya--"
+
+She gave a gay little laugh and held her back against his.  "How you
+cheat!" she cried, "No--your heels on the floor, sir--there, now!  Back
+to back, can you see in the mirror?  Where do I come?"
+
+The two stood motionless for a moment, their shoulders touching,
+peering eagerly sideways into the glass.
+
+"Kaya, you are standing on tiptoe!"
+
+"No--it is you."
+
+"Kaya!  You rogue!"
+
+She gave a little cry, laughing out like a child caught in mischief,
+springing away.  "I must practise being a boy," she exclaimed, "What is
+it you do?  It is so different from being a Countess.  One feels so
+free.  No heels, no train, no veil!  When one is used to the boots it
+must be heaven.  If my cap would only stay on!"
+
+She began to roam over the room, taking boyish strides, puckering her
+lips in a whistle; her thumbs in her vest and her head thrown back.
+"There, now, that is it; I feel better already, quite like a man.  It
+is charming, Monsieur; a little more practice--"
+
+Velasco was following her about with the cap in his hands.  "Step
+softly, Kaya, step softly," he said, "Stand still.  Let me put it on
+for you."
+
+"No--no, toss it over."
+
+With a little spring the girl swung herself on the table edge,
+balancing and swinging her feet; looking up at him from under her
+lashes and laughing.
+
+"Shall I make a good comrade, Monsieur Velasco?  What do you think?"
+
+He leaned over the table towards her.  His eyes were bright and eager,
+searching her face, the dimples that came and went in her cheeks, her
+soft, white throat, bare under the collarless jacket; the lips parted,
+and red, and arched; the rings of her hair, shining like gold.
+
+"Kaya," he whispered hoarsely, "I never saw you like this before.  My
+little comrade, my friend, my--  We will tramp together, you and I--all
+the way to the frontier.  They will never suspect us, never!  The
+Stradivarius shall earn our bread, and if you are ill, or weary, I will
+carry you in my arms.  In the market-places I will play for the
+peasants to dance, and you--you, Kaya--ah, what will you do?"
+
+He laughed softly to himself and began teasing her, half gayly, half
+tenderly, with his face close to hers, the sleeve of his jacket
+brushing her arm.
+
+"What will you do, Kaya?  Look at me!  Your cheek is red like a rose;
+your eyes are like stars.  Don't turn them away.  Lift the fringe of
+those lashes and look at me, Kaya.  Will you pass the cap for the
+pennies?--You will have to doff it because you are a boy; and you must
+do something because you are a gypsey.  Will you pass the cap for the
+peasants to pay?"
+
+He held the velveteen cap in his hands, playing with it, caressing it,
+watching her.  "Look at me, Kaya!"
+
+She flushed and drew back, her heart beating in little throbs under the
+vest.  Suddenly she turned and looked at him squarely.  It was strange,
+whenever their eyes met, like a thrill, a shock, an ecstasy; and then a
+slow returning to consciousness as after a blow.
+
+All at once, she drooped her lashes and began to trill, softly,
+faintly, like a bird, the tones clear, and sweet, and high; and as she
+sang, she glanced at him under her lashes, with her head on one side.
+The voice pulsed and grew in her throat, swelling out; then she
+softened it quickly with a look over her shoulder, half fearfully, and
+again it soared to a high note, trilling, lingering and dropping at
+last.
+
+Her mouth scarcely opened.  The sound seemed to come through the arch
+of her lips, every note pure, and sweet, and soft like a breath.
+Velasco bent over entranced.
+
+"How you sing!" he cried, "Like some beautiful bird!  In Italy, on the
+shores of the lakes, I have heard the nightingales sing like that; but
+never a woman.  The timbre is crystal and pure, like clear, running
+water.  When you soar to the heights, it is like a lark flying; and
+when you drop into alt, it is a tone that forces the tears to one's
+eyes, so pathetic and strange.  Who taught you, Kaya?  Who taught you
+to sing like that?  Or were you born so with a voice alive in your
+throat; you had only to open it and let it come out?"
+
+She shook her head, swinging her feet, trying to laugh.
+
+"It is so small," she said wistfully.  "You are a musician, Monsieur
+Velasco, and I--I know nothing of music.  No--I will pass the cap for
+pennies.  Give it to me.  Is it getting late, must we go?"
+
+She took the cap and put it on her head, on the back of her curls,
+avoiding his eyes.  "Will that do for a gypsey?  Is it
+straight--Velasco?"  She said the name quite low and breathed
+hurriedly, with a flush on her cheeks.
+
+He was still staring at her, but he said nothing; he made no motion and
+she drew away from him a little frightened.
+
+"You are like a violin," he murmured, "I told you you were like a
+violin.  You are all music, as I am music.  We will make music
+together--Kaya.  Sing for me again, just open your lips and
+breathe--once more!  Let me hear you trill?"
+
+"I can't," said the girl.  "I am faint, Velasco.  When I look at you
+now there is a mist before my eyes.  The room sways."  She put out her
+hands suddenly, as if to steady herself.
+
+Velasco started back: "Good heavens, Kaya, what is the matter?  The
+colour has gone from your cheeks; there are shadows under your eyes,
+deep and heavy as though they were painted.  Don't faint, will you?
+Don't!  I shouldn't know what under heaven to do!"
+
+The girl slipped down from the table and, staggering a little, threw
+herself into the chair by the fire-place.  "Get me some food, Velasco;
+some bread, some wine.  In a moment it will pass!"  She began laughing
+again immediately.  "Don't be frightened.  It is you who are pale, not
+I.  Just a morsel to eat--Velasco.  Since last night I have eaten
+nothing.  You forget how hungry a boy can be!  Is there time?"
+
+Velasco had snatched the red wine from the table and was pouring it out
+in a glass, holding it to her lips.
+
+"Drink, Kaya, drink--and here are biscuits, shall I break them for you?
+Don't speak.  Shut your eyes, and drink, and eat.  I will feed you."
+
+He hovered over her with little exclamations of pity and self-reproach.
+
+"Why didn't I see at once you were starving!  Poor child, poor little
+one!  You seemed so gay, dancing about; your cheeks were so red and
+now--Ah no, it is better--the colour is coming back slowly.  The wine
+brings a flush."
+
+The girl lay back with her eyes closed, sipping the wine from the glass
+as he held it.  "Is there plenty of time, Velasco?" she said faintly.
+
+He looked at the hands of the malachite clock on the mantel.  They
+pointed to ten and presently it began to strike.
+
+"Yes--yes." he whispered, "Lie still.  Let me feed you.  We will go
+presently."
+
+"What was that on the stairway?" she said, "Was it a noise?--I thought
+I heard something."
+
+She opened her eyes and started up; and with the sudden movement, the
+glass in her hand tipped and spilled over.  "It is nothing," she said,
+"It fell on my hand.  I will wipe it away."
+
+Velasco laughed.  "Your hand!" he cried, "Your hand is a rose leaf, so
+soft and so white.  The wine has stained it with a blotch.  How
+strange!  It is red, it is crimson--a spot like blood."
+
+The girl blanched suddenly and fell back with a cry.
+
+"Not blood, Velasco!  Wipe it off!  Take it away!  Not blood!  Oh, take
+it away!"
+
+Her eyes stared down at the blotch on her hand.  They were frightened,
+dilated, and her whole body quivered in the chair.  "Velasco--take it
+away!"
+
+He put down the glass and took the small, white hand in his own,
+brushing it gently with the sleeve of his jacket.  "There now," he
+said, "it is gone.  It was only a drop of wine.  Hush--hush!  See,
+there is no blood, Kaya, I never meant there was blood.  Don't scream
+again!"
+
+"It's the Cross!" she cried, "the curse of the Black Cross!  Ah,
+go--leave me!  I am a murderess!  I shot him, Velasco, I shot him!  I
+fulfilled the vow, the oath of the order.  But now--oh God!  I am
+cursed!  Not blood--not blood!"
+
+She was struggling to her feet.
+
+"_Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy_.  I did it!
+Velasco--I did it!"
+
+She fell back into the chair again, sobbing, murmuring to herself.
+"Not blood--no--not blood!"
+
+"That is over and past," said Velasco, "Don't think of it, Kaya.  Be a
+boy, a man, not weak like a woman.  Eat the rest of the bread."
+
+The girl took the bread from his hand.
+
+"Finish the wine."
+
+He held the glass to her lips until she had drained it; and then she
+began to laugh a little unsteadily.
+
+"You are right," she said, "a boy doesn't--weep.  I must be strong, a
+good comrade."  She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up at him
+pathetically, smiling with lips that still quivered.  "It is over," she
+said, "I am--I have--you know; but it is over!  I will forget it.
+Sometimes I can forget it if I try; then I shut my eyes at night and I
+see him before me, on his face with his arms outstretched--still and
+strange.  The blood is trickling a stream on the floor!  I hear the
+shot--I--"
+
+"Be still, Kaya, hush!  Don't speak of it; forget it!  Hush!"
+
+She began to laugh again: "See, I am your comrade, light-hearted and
+gay as a gypsey should be.  Already--I have forgotten!  What a couple
+of tramps we are, you and I!  Just look at your boots!"
+
+"And your faded old jacket!"
+
+"And your scarf, Velasco!"
+
+"And your velveteen cap!"
+
+They laughed out together, and then they stopped suddenly and listened.
+"Was it anything?"
+
+"No, I think not."
+
+"Are you sure?"
+
+Velasco leaned towards her and their fingers touched for a moment.  She
+drew them away.
+
+"Shall we go; is it time?"
+
+"Not yet," said Velasco, "not yet!  Your lips are so sweet, they are
+arched like a bow; they quiver like a string when one plays on it.
+Kiss me, Kaya."
+
+She pressed him back with her hands outstretched, her palms against his
+coat.  "We must go," she whispered, "They will track us, Monsieur.  I
+am frightened."
+
+"Kaya, kiss me."
+
+Their eyes met and drew closer, gazing intently, the dark and the blue.
+
+"Don't touch me," she said faintly.  "We are two boys together.  You
+must forget that I am a girl.  Can you forget?"
+
+"No," said Velasco.  "You were charming before, but you are
+irresistible now, in that velveteen jacket and scarf, with the curls on
+your brow.  When you look at me so, with your head on one side, and
+your eyes half veiled, and the flush on your cheeks, you are sweet--I
+love you!  Kiss me."
+
+He pressed forward closely, his eyes still on hers; but she held him
+back with her hands, trembling a little.
+
+"Velasco," she whispered, "Listen!  I trust you.  You are stronger than
+I; your wrists are like steel, but--I trust you.  See--I trust you."
+
+She took down her hands from his shoulders and folded them proudly over
+her breast, gazing up at him.
+
+"How strange your eyes are," said Velasco, "like two pools in the
+twilight; one could drown in their depths.  You are there behind the
+blue, Kaya.  Your spirit looks out at me, brave and dauntless.  When
+you sob, you are like a child; when you look at me under the veil of
+your lashes and your heart beats fast, you are a woman.  And now--you
+are--what are you, Kaya?  A young knight watching beside his shield!"
+
+He hesitated, and passed his hand over his brows, and looked at her
+again; then he moved away slowly and began to lay the things in his
+knapsack.  "They are all boys' things," he said, "but you are a boy;
+they will do for you too."
+
+"Yes," she said.
+
+He laughed a little unsteadily.  "There is money in my belt; now the
+knapsack is ready, my violin--and that is all.  It is nearly eleven.
+Come--Kaya."
+
+He turned his head away without looking at her; he approached the door
+slowly.  The girl sat still in the chair.
+
+"Are you coming?"
+
+There was silence; then he turned on his heel, and went back to her,
+and laid his hand on her shoulder.  "Kaya," he said, whispering as if
+someone could hear, "Are you afraid?  Why are you afraid to come with
+me, dear brother musician, dear comrade?"  His voice broke.  "I will
+take care of you.  You said you would trust me, Kaya."
+
+The girl clasped his arm with a cry: "I am not afraid for myself," she
+said, "but for you--you, Velasco.  Leave me before it is too late.
+There is time for the train, just time.  I implore you to go!"
+
+She trembled and raised her eyes to his.  "If anything should happen,
+and you suffered for me, I couldn't bear it.  Leave me--Velasco!"
+
+He put out his hand and took hers, crushing it in his own strength.  He
+did not speak but he drew her forward, and she followed him dumbly,
+quietly, without resistance; her head drooping, the cap on the back of
+her yellow curls; the lashes hiding her eyes, fringing her cheek.
+
+He took the Stradivarius under his arm.  The door closed and they
+started out, hesitating, looking back over their shoulders; stealing
+down the stairs like two frightened children hand in hand.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+The first pale streaks of dawn were creeping slowly up from the horizon,
+piercing the darkness of night with faint, far-away shafts of light, like
+arrows silver-tipped, shot from an unseen quiver.  In the distance, the
+snow fields stretched limitless and vast, and between them the road wound
+in and out, narrow and dark, like a coiled serpent amid the whiteness.
+
+Here and there an occasional black-roofed farm house reared its head;
+across the snow came the sudden gleam of an ice covered pond; while afar
+off, to the left, the domes of Bélaïa rose dark and mysterious in their
+roundness, like a patch of giant toadstools, shadowy and strange.  The
+air was damp and a cold wind blew over the snow drifts.  Along the road,
+in the full teeth of the blast, trudged two boys, the one a little behind
+the other, and the taller of the two shielding the younger with his body.
+
+"Is it far now, Velasco?"
+
+"Not far, if you peep through the folds of your cloak you will see the
+domes over yonder.  Are you weary, Kaya?"
+
+"No--Velasco."
+
+The voice came in little gasps, as if blown by the gale, fluttering like
+a leaf that is tossed hither and thither.  The older boy bent his head,
+struggling forward.
+
+"The wind is like a dagger," he stammered, "it cuts through the cloak
+like an edge of fine steel, like a poignard piercing the heart.  Come
+closer, Kaya, and let me put my arm around you.  Your body sways like a
+frail stem, a flower.  You are stumbling and your breath freezes, even as
+it comes through your lips.  Come closer, or you will fall, Kaya.  Let me
+put my arm around you."
+
+"It is nothing, Velasco; only the snow that whirls before my eyes and
+blinds them.  Is that the dawn, those faint, grey streaks in the
+distance?"
+
+"You are stumbling again, Kaya!  It is wonderful the way you have tramped
+the whole night through.  We are almost there."
+
+"It is only my feet, Velasco; they are frozen a little by the snow, and
+numb.  That is nothing for a boy.  Let us run a race together.  Come!"
+
+"The wind mocks at you, little one.  Run in such a blast--fight rather!
+Put your head down and battle with it.  The demon!  Keep behind me a
+little; use my cloak and my arm as a shield.  It is not far now."
+
+"Shall we stop at the inn, Velasco; is it safe, do you think?  There is
+one on the market-place."
+
+"Yes, why not?"
+
+"I was there once before, Velasco, with my--with my maid!" The girl
+laughed.
+
+"You pant, Kaya, and your breath comes in jerks.  Are you frightened?"
+
+"No, Velasco--no!"
+
+"They will look for us in the trains and the boats, but never in the
+snow-fields and the market-places.  Kaya, we will tramp as long as you
+are able to bear it, and then--"
+
+"Then--Velasco?"
+
+"We will take the train at some smaller station--Dvisk, Vilna--wherever
+we can."
+
+"You, Velasco, but not I."
+
+"Both of us.  I will never leave you again.  In my pocket are passports,
+blank; I bribed the official.  We will fill them in together: two
+gypsies, one dark and one fair.  Ha, Kaya--keep up--a little further!
+See, the domes are bigger now and nearer, and the road goes straight
+without winding."
+
+"Velasco--I cannot walk!  I cannot see!  Everything whirls before me in a
+mist Go!  Leave me--I am falling--"
+
+The older gypsey gave a despairing look over the snow-fields; they were
+bare, and white, and glistening.  The golden ball of the sun had begun to
+climb slowly and the shafts had grown suddenly yellow.  Across the icy
+surface of the pond the wind whistled, lashing him in the face as with a
+whip.  The road was narrow and deserted.  They were alone, and the form
+of the younger boy lay against him unconscious, inert, half sunk in the
+snow.
+
+Velasco bent over his companion, chafing the hands, the cheeks; they were
+cold like ice.  He gave another despairing glance around; then he lifted
+the form in his stiffening arms and carried it slowly, laboriously
+forward, plodding each step; his head bent, his teeth grit together,
+fighting his way.
+
+
+The shafts lengthened across the sky; the domes grew larger and began to
+glitter in the rays of the sunlight; by the side of the road houses
+appeared, straggling at first, then nearer together.  Suddenly, behind
+them, came the tinkle of sleigh-bells, and the crunching of snow beaten
+in by the weight of hoofs.
+
+"Oï--Oï!"
+
+Velasco stepped aside with his burden and stared at the sleigh as it
+approached.  It was a cart, roughly set on runners, drawn by a pair of
+long-haired ponies; while fastened behind was a mare, and two wild-eyed
+colts following.
+
+The peasant in the seat was wrapped in sheep-skin and smoking a short,
+thick pipe held between his teeth.
+
+"Oï--Oï!  Is that a corpse you hold there, Bradjaga?" he cried.  His
+voice was hardly distinguishable above the roaring of the gale.
+
+"For the love of heaven," shouted Velasco, "Moujik, if you have a heart
+under your sheep-skin, let me lay my comrade in the cart!  He is faint
+with the cold, benumbed.  We have tramped all night in the snow.  Are you
+bound for the market at Bélaïa?  Hey, stop!  Moujik--stop!"
+
+"Get in," said the peasant, "The ponies rear and dance as if Satan were
+on their backs, and the mare is like one possessed!  It is good to see
+the sun.  Get in, Bradjaga, and if the burden in your arms is no corpse
+it will soon become one!  The night has been hell.  Bózhe moi!  At the
+first crossing to the left is a tea-house--Get along you brutes!--Pour
+the vodka into his throat; it will sting him to life!"
+
+The ponies dashed forward, the mare and the foals running behind.
+Velasco sat huddled on the floor of the cart, his violin and the knapsack
+slung from his shoulders; his arms still clasping the slight, dark form,
+protecting it from the jolting of the runners.  He was muttering to it
+under his breath:
+
+"Kaya--poor little one!  Your curls are damp against my cheek; your
+forehead is ice!  Courage, little comrade.  Now--your heart beats
+faster--your eye-lids are flickering!  Another moment and you will be
+warm and safe.  The lights of the tea-house are ahead.  Moujik--faster!
+We will drink a glass of vodka together, all three!  Faster--faster!"
+
+As the sleigh dashed into the court-yard, the great red ball of the sun
+rose above the distant tree-tops; and behind the stables a cock began to
+crow, slowly, feebly at first, as if just awake and stretching his wings.
+
+
+When Kaya came to consciousness again, she was lying on a pile of straw
+in a low raftered room.  She had dreamt that she was chained and in
+prison, and that something was choking her and weighing on her breast;
+but when she tried to move her limbs, she found that it was the blankets,
+wrapping her closely; and when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of
+Velasco bending over her, and he was trying to force some wine through
+her clenched lips.
+
+"Where am I?" said Kaya faintly, "You are choking me, Velasco!"
+
+She struggled to a sitting posture, leaning on one elbow, and peered up
+into his face.  "What has happened?" she said again, "Where are we?  I
+thought we were tramping through the snow and my feet were frozen!  You
+are pale, Velasco, and your eyes are heavy!--Have I slept?"
+
+Velasco glanced over his shoulder, and then brought his lips close to her
+face and whispered: "You fainted and I carried you in my arms; the Moujik
+brought us here in his cart.  You opened your eyes once, and then when we
+laid you on the straw you fell asleep.  You slept so long I was
+frightened, Kaya--if it had not been for your jacket moving under the
+blankets, rising and falling softly with the beat of your heart, you
+might have been dead; you were so still!  Poor little one, you were
+exhausted.  Drink a little and eat!"
+
+"What time is it, Velasco?"
+
+"The sun was rising when we drove into the court and now, in another hour
+or two, it will be setting."
+
+Kaya put her hand to her cropped yellow curls, and then she looked at him
+and a dimple came in her cheek:
+
+"I forgot about being a boy," she murmured, "Is this what you call an
+inn, Velasco?  It looks like a stable!"
+
+"It is a stable."
+
+Kaya looked at him again and began to laugh softly: "I forgot about being
+a gypsey," she said, "Your clothes are ragged and torn, Velasco; they are
+worse than they were that night in your Studio.  And I--tell me--how do I
+look?"
+
+"Like a little Bradjaga, sweet, and disreputable, and boyish!"
+
+Kaya drew herself slowly to her knees and then to her feet, brushing the
+straw from her velveteen trousers and the sleeves of her jacket.  "They
+wouldn't let us in the inn because we were gypsies, was that it?  They
+were afraid we would steal?"
+
+The dimples came back in her face and she picked up her cap from the
+floor, dusting it with her elbow and cramming it down on the back of her
+curls.  "Steal me a little bread, Velasco, I am hungry."
+
+"Come back to your nest in the straw, Kaya; put your fingers in my pocket
+and steal for yourself.  I bought a loaf with a couple of copecks, and
+some honey-cake.  At sun-down, when the peasants come for their vodka,
+there will be a dance.  They have never danced to a Stradivarius before;
+but they won't know the difference, Kaya, not they!  We will pay for the
+straw with a rollicking waltz--Ha ha!"
+
+The gypsey musician caught his comrade by the arm and pulled her down on
+the straw beside him.
+
+"Which pocket, Velasco?  Oh, I feel the honey-cake bulging!  Give it to
+me."
+
+"No--take it yourself!"
+
+"Your pocket is so deep; it is like diving into a pool."
+
+"Not so deep as your eyes, Kaya.  You thief!  Ah, take your fingers away
+and pay for your bread."
+
+"Are you fooling, Velasco?  You look at me so strangely!  Sometimes your
+eyes are slits and disappear under your brows, and now--Velasco, turn
+your head away--I am hungry.  You make my heart beat!--Velasco--give me
+the bread."
+
+"Pay first and then you shall have it."
+
+She stared at him a moment, drawing back into the straw.  "I am a boy,"
+she said softly, panting, "Remember I am a boy!  Don't--tease me!"
+
+"Just once, Kaya."
+
+"No--Velasco."
+
+The older gypsey glanced again about the low raftered loft.  The window
+in the rafters was hung with cob-webs; the light came through it dimly, a
+shaft of sun-beams dancing on the floor; they fell on her hair beneath
+the cap and the curls glistened like gold.  Her eyes were watching him.
+
+"No--no--Velasco!"
+
+He came nearer to her, and the straw crackled as he moved, stretching out
+his arms: "When you were weary, Kaya, I carried you.  When you fell
+asleep I watched over you.  It is not your heart that is beating so fast;
+it is mine!  The colour has come back to your cheeks and the light to
+your eyes.  You slept while I guarded you.  My eyes were heavy, but I
+dared not shut them; I watched the folds of your jacket rising and
+falling, the breath as it came through the arch of your lips; the gold of
+your curls against the straw; the oval of your cheek and your lashes.  My
+eyes never closed.--I have given up everything for you, Kaya, my life and
+my art."
+
+He stretched out his arms to her again, and his dark eyes gazed into her
+blue ones, passionate and eager.
+
+"--Kaya!"
+
+She put out her hand and touched his:
+
+"Sleep, Velasco.  Your life is safe and your art.  You have given them to
+me, but I will give them back again.  Break off a piece of the bread,
+Velasco, and we will talk a little together while we eat.  We have been
+such good comrades, you and I, and we care for one another--as comrades
+do.  If you should die or--or leave me, it would break my heart--you know
+that."
+
+"Ah, kiss me--Kaya!  Let me take you in my arms!  Come to me and let me
+kiss you on your lips!"
+
+"You hurt me, Velasco, your hands are so strong!  Not on the
+lips--Velasco--not on the--lips!  I beseech you, dear friend,--I--"
+
+The gypsey held her close to him for a moment, his heart beating against
+hers, and then he turned away his head.  "I love you, Kaya; I love you!
+Kiss me of your own will.  I can't force you--how can I?  Your hands are
+struggling in mine, but they are soft like the down on a bird's breast!
+Some day you will come to me, Kaya, some day--when you love me too.
+When--ah!  The touch of your hands, your hair against my cheek sets my
+blood on fire!  Feel my pulse how it throbs!  It is like a storm under
+the skin!  I suffer, little Bradjaga--little comrade!"
+
+"Don't suffer!" cried the girl, "Let me go, Velasco, let me go!  We will
+sit here together, side by side; be my comrade again, my big brother!
+Laugh, Velasco!  Smile at me!  When you look like that and come so close,
+I am frightened!  Don't tease me any more!  The bread is hard like a nut;
+see, I will crack it between my teeth.  Where is the honey-cake, Velasco?
+Give me a piece."
+
+"Do you care for me, Kaya?  Look me in the eyes and tell me."
+
+The girl pushed him away from her slowly and turned away her head with a
+flush: "Is that your violin over there in the straw, lying in a little
+nest all by itself,--cradled so snug and so warm?  It is charming to be a
+gypsey, Velasco.  Are you glad I came to you, or are you sorry?  That
+night, do you remember the violets?  I flung them straight at your feet!
+I wasn't a boy then, but I threw straight.  Velasco, listen--I--I care
+for you--but don't--kiss me!"
+
+"Kaya--Kaya!"
+
+"Hush!  Shut your eyes!  Put your head back in the straw and go to sleep.
+When it is time for the dance I will wake you.  I will sit here close
+beside you and watch, as you watched over me.  Shut your eyes, Velasco."
+
+"Won't you--Kaya?"
+
+"Go to sleep, Velasco--hush!"
+
+"If I shut my eyes--will you?"
+
+"Hush!"
+
+The sun-beams danced on the dusty floor and the light came dimly through
+the cobwebs.  Velasco lay with his arm under his head, his young limbs
+stretched in the straw, asleep.  He murmured and tossed uneasily.  There
+was a flush on his face; his dark hair fell over his brows and teased
+him, and he flung it back, half unconscious.
+
+Kaya covered him with the blanket, kneeling beside him in the straw.  She
+moved without rustling, drawing it in softly, and smoothing the straw
+with her fingers.
+
+"It is my fault that he is lying here in a loft," she whispered low to
+herself, "He does it for me!  His hands have been frozen--for me!  They
+were so white, and firm, and supple; and now--they are scratched and
+swollen!"
+
+She gave a frightened glance about the loft, and then bent over him,
+holding back a fold of the blanket.
+
+"He is asleep!" she breathed, "He will never know!"
+
+She stooped low with her golden head and kissed his hands one after the
+other, lightly, swiftly, pressing her lips to the scratches.  He murmured
+again, tossing uneasily; and she fell backwards in the straw, gazing at
+him, with her arms locked over her breast and her heart throbbing madly.
+
+"No--he is asleep!" she said, "He is fast asleep!  Another hour, and then
+in the dusk I will wake him.  He will play for the dancing--Velasco!  The
+greatest violinist in all Russia--he will play for the peasants to dance!"
+
+She gave a little sob, half smothered.  "It was wicked," she said,
+"unpardonable!  I didn't know then--how could I know?  If I had
+known!--God, save him!  Give him back his life and his art that he has
+given to me.  Give it all back to him, and let me suffer alone the curse
+of the Cross--the curse of the--Cross!  Make me strong to resist him!
+Ah, Velasco--!"
+
+She was sobbing through her clenched teeth; staring at him, stretching
+out her arms to him.
+
+--"Velasco!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by
+lamps, small and ill-smelling.  The ceiling was blackened by the smoke
+from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes.  At one
+end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two
+gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a
+scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden
+curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the
+elbows.
+
+The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced
+moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short
+skirts.  The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots
+until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the
+chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and
+still grimy with toil.  The tones of the violin filled the room.  "One,
+two--one, two--one, two, three--curtsey and turn--one, two, three."
+
+The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half
+turned to the room.  There was no music before him.  He improvised as
+he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with
+notes of his own.  His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his
+chair, holding the violin close to his cheek.
+
+"One, two--one, two--one, two, three."
+
+The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the
+whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke.  In his hands he held a
+tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz,
+glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing.  Occasionally
+they whispered together.
+
+"You play too well, Velasco!  Hist--scratch with the bow!"
+
+"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"
+
+"Just a little, Velasco."
+
+"Is that better?  Tısyacha chertéi, how it rasps one's ears!"
+
+"Yes, but your technique, Velasco!  No gypsey could play like that!
+Leave out the double stops and the trills!"
+
+"I forget, little one, I forget!  The Stradivarius plays itself.  Keep
+the castanet rattling and then I will remember."
+
+"Velasco, hist--st!  There are strangers standing by the door; they
+have just come in!  Scratch a little more, just a little.  Your tone is
+so deep and so pure.  When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and
+the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still.  My pulses
+are leaping, dancing!  One, two--one, two, three!"
+
+"Is that right?  Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya!  I can't bear it so
+close to my ear.  The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine!
+No one will notice."
+
+The whispering ceased.  The gypsey bent his dark head again and the
+violin played on.  "One, two--one, two, three!"
+
+All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and
+there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two:
+"Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!"  Their heels beat against the floor.
+
+The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the
+dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other.
+When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and
+beckoned to the gypsies.
+
+"You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the
+old man, he suited them better.  He always came strong on the beat.
+Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the
+first, like this."
+
+He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three!  _One_, two, three!  And
+fast--just so, all the time!"
+
+"Chórt vozmí[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing!  Don't
+clap your hands again--don't!  The racket is enough to split one's
+ear-drums!"
+
+He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord,
+who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of
+illustration.
+
+"_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three!  So, loud and strong!  Just try
+it, Bradjaga!"
+
+Velasco blinked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor
+Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they
+prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat!  Bózhe moi!  Kaya, do
+you hear?"
+
+The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing
+nearer to him on the platform.  "Hist, Velasco!  They are peasants;
+they don't know!  Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor.
+They are looking at you and talking together!  I knew it, I feared it!"
+
+The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups
+came several ladies and a gentleman.
+
+"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous
+musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his
+presence.  He wishes to examine your instrument."
+
+The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand.  He was
+short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke.  "Quite a d-decent
+fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"
+
+Velasco bowed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a
+humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Bárin!  Impossible!"
+
+"I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you
+w-want?"
+
+Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his
+shoulders.
+
+"Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I
+like the t-tone.  I will give you--hm--s-sixty-five roubles!"
+
+Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling.
+
+"Seventy!  That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle!   You could buy
+a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good!  Come--will you
+t-take it?"
+
+Velasco began to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the
+arch with an arpeggio pianissimo.
+
+"You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician.  "You want to bargain!
+One hundred r-roubles then!  There!"  He turned to the landlord,
+stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards.  "Absurd isn't it?  The
+f-fellow must be mad!"
+
+"Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who
+can't even keep time.  You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed
+the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so.  They are
+nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Bárin, old Dimitri, who
+is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his
+for a quarter the price and be thankful.  A nice little instrument,
+fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!"
+
+He twiddled his fingers in contempt.
+
+Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings.  His hair fell over his
+brows and he half closed his eyes, gazing at the musician through the
+slits mockingly.
+
+"Are you really the great Petrokoff?" he said, "The Professor of the
+Violin known through all Russia!  From Moscow?  Even the gypsies have
+heard of you!"
+
+The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to
+warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the
+strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy!  You are talented, it
+is true; but what do you know of violinists?  You ought to be studying."
+
+"That is true, Bárin," said Velasco humbly.  "I am only a poor gypsey;
+I know nothing!"
+
+"Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is
+excellent; the muscles are good.  You need training of course.  If you
+come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a
+scholarship for one of my classes."
+
+"Ah, Bárin--your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey.
+"I should like it above all things!  Would the Bárin teach me himself?"
+
+"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to
+pass an examination.  Your bowing, for instance, is bad!  You should
+hold your arm so, and your wrist like this."
+
+"Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then
+in another.  "That is indeed difficult, Bárin."
+
+"Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you!  I am very
+particular about that with all my pupils.  There--that is better."
+
+The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully,
+as if he were handling an egg with the shell broken.  "Ah--so?" he
+said, "Of course!  And can you play with your wrist like that, Bárin?"
+
+Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's
+arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the
+tone!  That comes from the method.  You will learn it in time; the
+secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!"
+
+Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he
+said wistfully.  "Your scale, Bárin!  I never heard such a scale."  He
+gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low
+whistle of astonishment.
+
+"Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never
+heard any one cough so.  Is he consumptive?"
+
+"No--no!" said the gypsey.  "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the
+wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing.  He will recover.
+Bárin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?"
+
+"Not at all.  The arm must be--so!"
+
+"Ah--so?"
+
+"That is better."
+
+The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of
+Petrokoff.  The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if
+weighted.  His face wore an anxious expression.  "Dear me!" he
+exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined.  Does every violinist
+hold his bow like that?"
+
+Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his
+coat.  "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years--there
+is no other way."
+
+The gypsey sighed.  "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!"
+His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift
+and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand,
+and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he
+trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like
+the sighing of wind in the tree-tops.  The hair fell over his brows,
+and for a moment there was silence in the room.
+
+Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to
+still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who
+was staring hard at the gypsey.  They were listening intently.
+Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a
+little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening
+to a pupil in his class room.
+
+"Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent.  I think I could
+make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is
+abominable!  It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your
+harmonics--bah!"
+
+He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust.  "Give
+me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy.  If you
+come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of
+charity.  The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know.  But I have
+a good heart, I am interested in your progress.  With the two hundred
+roubles you can pay for your lodging and food.  The harmonics--listen!
+They should sound like this."
+
+He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp.
+The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly.
+
+"Let me try, Bárin!" he cried, "So--so?"
+
+The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound
+was like the wheels of a cart unoiled.
+
+"Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible!  For the love of heaven,
+Bradjaga, stop!"
+
+The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes.
+It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil
+laughing.
+
+"Ha-ha!" cried Velasco.  "Now I understand!  That is what you were
+after, Bárin?"
+
+Petrokoff eyed him sharply.
+
+The boy's face was the picture of innocence; the mouth was slightly
+puckered as if with concentrated effort; his eyes were open and frank;
+he was smiling a little triumphantly like a child that is sure of
+pleasing and waiting for praise.
+
+"You play atrociously," said Petrokoff severely.  "I shall keep you six
+months on finger exercises alone.  You play false!"
+
+The light died out of the boy's face:
+
+"Bárin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like
+yourself.  I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see."
+
+Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!"
+he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once.  Eh--what?  Excuse me a
+moment, Bárin."
+
+Kaya's yellow curls were close to his ear and she whispered something.
+She was standing behind his chair and, as she stooped to him, her hand
+rested on his shoulder and trembled slightly: "Velasco," she said, in a
+voice like a breath, "Come, I beseech you!  You are playing with
+danger, with death!  They will surely suspect; ah, come!"
+
+The gypsey tossed his head, like a young horse when some one is trying
+to force the bit between his teeth; his chin stiffened and an obstinate
+look came into his eyes.  He brushed her aside: "No," he murmured, "Go
+away, Kaya!  He is a stupid fool, can't you see?  I am not half
+through; it is heavenly to hear him!  Go--go!  I want to tease him some
+more; I tell you I will."
+
+The younger gypsey sank back on the floor cross-legged, half hidden by
+the chair and the form of Velasco.  Her hands were still trembling and
+she put them in the pockets of her jacket, trying to force her red lips
+to a whistle; but no sound came through the arch.  She heard the voice
+of Velasco smooth, and wicked, and humble, just above her.
+
+"There is a musician," he was saying, "Perhaps you have heard of him?
+His name is Velasco."
+
+"Bosh!" said Petrokoff in an angry tone, and then he blew his nose
+loudly.  "Velasco--bosh!  He is only a trickster!  There is a fad
+nowadays among the ladies to run after him."  He bowed to the three
+ladies in turn mockingly, "My friends here tried to get tickets last
+week in St. Petersburg, but the house was sold out.  Bosh--I tell you!
+I wouldn't cross the street to hear a virtuoso like that!"
+
+The gypsey gave a queer sound like a chuckle: "He does not play as you
+do, of course, Bárin!"
+
+"I!" cried Petrokoff.  He twirled his mustache fiercely.  "The Russians
+are like children, they run after every new plaything.  The Pole is a
+new plaything, a toy--bah!  I have been before the public twenty-five
+years.  I am an artist; I am one of the old School.  I--"
+
+"Go away, Kaya!" whispered Velasco, "This is grand!  I haven't enjoyed
+myself so much for an age.  Go away, little one; don't be frightened.
+It is all right, only don't cough too much, or the ladies will see you
+are laughing.
+
+"Ah, Velasco, come--come!"
+
+"Go away, child!  He is opening his mouth again, the fat monster!
+Watch the 'I' leap out!  If he plays again I shall die in a fit; he
+handles the bow like the fin of a shark.  Be still, Kaya--go!"
+
+"Velasco--listen, won't you listen?  The ladies--ah, don't turn your
+head away--the one with the grey bonnet is the Countess Galli.  I have
+seen her often at my father's house, Velasco; and she stares first at
+me, then at you.  She suspects."
+
+"The fright, with the long nose?"
+
+"Yes, and the pince-nez."
+
+"She is staring now.  Make up a face at her, Kaya; that will scare her
+away.  She has never seen you in boy's clothes before, I warrant, with
+your hands in your pockets, and your curls clipped short, and a cap on
+the back of your head--ha ha!"
+
+"Velasco, don't laugh.  Don't you see she is whispering to Petrokoff
+now and looking at us through her pince-nez?"
+
+"So she is, the vixen, the miserable gossip!  Slip out towards the door
+quietly, Kaya, while they are talking.  I will follow directly.  Wait
+at the back of the stable by the hay loft."
+
+The gypsey stood up suddenly and approached the little group of ladies,
+bowing to them and to Petrokoff.  He was wrapping the violin in its
+cover and laying it away in its case as he moved.  "Pardon, Bárin," he
+said softly, "If you will wait for me here, I shall return presently.
+My supper is waiting.  Perhaps after an hour you will still like to
+purchase the violin.  See, it is really not a bad instrument--if you
+are in earnest about the two hundred roubles?"
+
+Petrokoff stepped eagerly forward.  "Now," he said, "Give it to me now.
+I will hand you the money at once in notes."
+
+"Presently, Bárin," said Velasco still softly, "I will return directly.
+If your Excellency will permit--"
+
+He slipped past the outstretched arm of the musician; bowed again to
+the lady in the grey bonnet, staring straight into the gold-rimmed
+lorgnette; and the door closed behind him.  Running like a grey-hound,
+Velasco darted through the corridor and around by the side of the inn
+to the stable.  It was dark there, deserted, and beyond, the snow
+glittered on the meadows.
+
+"Kaya--are you there?"
+
+"Here, Velasco."
+
+"Have you the knapsack?"
+
+"Yes--yes, here it is."
+
+"Take my hand then and run--run, Kaya, for the Countess has told
+Petrokoff; she has told him by now.  They'll be hot on our tracks!
+This way--to the left of the road!  Hold fast to my hand and run,
+Kaya--run!"
+
+"I will, Velasco, I will!"
+
+"Don't fall--don't stumble!"
+
+"I won't!  Which way?  I can't see the road."
+
+"Ahead, straight ahead!  Hold me faster!  Leap as I leap--and if you
+hear hoofs, sink down in the shadow."
+
+"Yes--yes, Velasco!"
+
+"Ah, run, dearest--run, for the fiends are behind us!  I hear hoofs and
+bells.  Run--run!"
+
+
+
+[1] The devil take you.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+"Who is in the sleigh, Kaya, can you see?  Keep low in the shadow and
+don't move your head."
+
+"The Countess, Velasco, and Petrokoff and two other men."
+
+"Gendarmes?"
+
+"I think they are gendarmes, Velasco.  They look from side to side of
+the road as they pass and urge the driver forward."
+
+"Bózhe moi, little one!  Keep close to me and hold your breath; in
+another moment they will be past."
+
+"Now--Velasco!  Now they are out of sight; the last tinkle of the bells
+sounds in the distance.  Shall we lie here, or follow?"
+
+The gypsey took a long breath and rose to his feet, brushing the snow
+from his trousers and coat.  The girl still sat crouching behind the
+drift, peering ahead into the dark windings of the road and listening.
+
+"Come, little one!" said Velasco, "The fields are covered deep with the
+snow; there are no paths and we cannot go back.  Give me your hand.
+You will freeze if you linger."
+
+The girl put her hand in his, springing up, and they darted into the
+dark windings together, making little rushes forward, hand in hand;
+then poising on one foot and listening.
+
+"They might turn back you know, Velasco."
+
+"Do you hear the bells?"
+
+"Not yet."
+
+Then they ran on.
+
+The night grew darker and darker; the sky was heavy and black with
+clouds, and between them a faint light flitted occasionally like the
+ghost of a moon, but feeble and wan.  It struggled with the clouds,
+piercing them for an instant; and then it was gone and the sky grew
+blacker, like a great inky; surface, reflecting shadows on the
+snowfields, gigantic and strange.  The wind had died down, but the cold
+was intense, bitter, and the chill of the ice crept into the bones.
+
+"What is that dark thing ahead on the road, can you see, Velasco?"
+
+"Hist--Kaya, I see!  It is big and black.  It seems to be a house, or
+an inn, for look--there are lights like stars just appearing."
+
+"Not that, Velasco, look closer, in front of the house; does it look
+like a sleigh?"
+
+Velasco's grip tightened on the woolen glove of the girl and they
+halted together, half hesitating.
+
+"A sleigh, Kaya?  Stay here in the shadow--I will steal ahead and look."
+
+"Don't leave me; let me go with you!"
+
+The woolen glove clung to him and they went forward again, a step at a
+time, with eyes straining through the snow.
+
+"Is it the sleigh of the Countess, big and black with three horses
+abreast?"
+
+"Yes--it looks so."
+
+"Is there some one inside?"
+
+"The driver perhaps!  No, there is no one.  Velasco, they have gone
+into the inn to drink something warm and ask questions perhaps--'Have
+you seen two gypsies, one dark and one fair?'--Ah, Velasco, what shall
+we do?  Shall we creep past on tiptoe?"
+
+The girl drew close to him and looked up in his face.  "What shall we
+do, Velasco--speak!  You stand there with your eyes half shut, in a
+dream.  Shall we run, Velasco?  Shall we run on ahead?"
+
+The gypsey put his finger to his lips and crept forward.  "This is a
+God-forsaken hole, Kaya!" he whispered, "No telegraph--and perhaps no
+horses; they could only get oxen or mules.  It will take several
+minutes to drink their hot tea--and the brutes are quite fresh!"
+
+He moved cautiously, swiftly, to the hitching post, fumbling with the
+straps.  The horses whinnied a little, nosing one another and pawing
+the earth.
+
+"What are you doing, Velasco?"
+
+"Jump in, Kaya, jump in--quick, or the driver will hear!  Take the
+fiddle!  Ah, the deuce with this knot!"
+
+With a last tug the knot yielded.  Velasco dashed to the step and
+sprang on it; then his knees gave beneath him, and he fell in the snow
+as the horses leaped forward.
+
+"Oï--oï!  Tısyacha chertéi!  A pest!"
+
+With oaths and shrieks of rage the driver rushed from the kitchen of
+the inn, wiping the vodka from his beard with his sleeve.  From the
+tea-room three other men rushed forward, also shouting, and behind them
+the Countess.
+
+"What is it?" she screamed, "Have the horses run away?  Where is the
+sleigh and my buffalo robe?  Are they stolen?  Catch the thieves--catch
+them!"
+
+Velasco still lay in the snow, stunned by his fall, a dark patch like a
+shadow.  The sleigh had turned suddenly and veered around, not half a
+rod distant.  Kaya stood with the reins uplifted, dragging back on the
+bits; and the horses were rearing, plunging, back on their haunches,
+slipping on the ice.
+
+"Velasco!" she cried, "Velasco!"
+
+Her voice rang out like a trumpet, echoing over the snow; and as she
+cried, she swept the horses about and lashed them with the whip, until
+they came leaping and trembling close to the patch on the snow, which
+had begun to stir slowly, awaking from the swoon.
+
+"Ah, if I were a man!" she cried, "If I were only a man and could lift
+you!"  She clinched her teeth, swinging the whip, reining back the
+struggling animals with her slim, white hands from which she had torn
+the gloves.
+
+As the figure moved again uneasily, half sitting up in the snow, the
+men rushed forward.
+
+"Here they are--the gypsies!  We have them!  They were stealing the
+sleigh, the rascals!"
+
+As they sprang at Velasco, surrounding him, there came suddenly a swift
+whizz through the air, a singing as of a hornet, and the heavy lash
+struck them, across the face, the eyes, the shoulders, stinging and
+sharp, leaving cruel welts as it struck.  The driver screamed out, half
+blinded.  The gendarmes started back.  Petrokoff fell on his knees and
+cowered behind a bush, his fat body trembling and his hands
+outstretched as if praying:
+
+"For the love of the saints!" he cried, "Don't strike!"
+
+The lash flashed through the air, blinding and terrible in its
+rapidity.  The gypsey leaned over the dash-board, her face white, her
+eyes dark with rage, her cap on the back of her yellow curls; and the
+whip seemed to leap between her fingers like something alive.
+
+"Velasco!" she screamed, "Get up!  Come--ah, come, while I beat them,
+the fiends!"
+
+The cry seemed to pierce the benumbed brain of her companion, as the
+lash the skin.  The dark patch moved again and Velasco struggled to his
+feet; he ran towards the sleigh.  The girl leaned forward once more and
+as the gendarmes sprang towards them again, swearing at her and
+shouting, she lashed them fiercely across the face and the eyes,
+mercilessly, with little cries of rage.  Velasco tumbled in beside her
+on the seat.
+
+"Are you there?" she cried, "Are you safe?"
+
+Then she turned, and loosening the reins the lash fell on the horses,
+cutting them sharply; and they dashed forward, the foam dripping from
+their bits and their hoofs striking sparks from the ice as they fled,
+galloping madly, swiftly, through the snow.
+
+In a moment the inn was left behind, the shouting and swearing died
+away in the distance, and there was silence, broken only by the panting
+of the horses and the sound of their hoofs galloping.  Kaya still urged
+them forward, shaking the reins in her left hand and lashing with the
+whip.
+
+"You are safe!" she cried, "You are there, Velasco?"
+
+And then as the silence continued, a great fear came over her; her
+heart seemed to leap in her throat and her pulses stopped beating.  She
+stooped over him, unheeding the horses.  They were in the midst of the
+forest now, and the next town was several versts distant.  It was dark
+and she put her face close to his, crying out: "Velasco!  Velasco!"
+
+Then she saw that he had fainted again; from his forehead a dark stream
+was gushing slowly; and when she touched it, it was warm and wet.  She
+gave a little cry.
+
+The horses galloped on, but the sleigh moved more smoothly and slid
+over the icy surface of the snow.  Kaya wound the reins about the
+dash-board.  They were quiet now, let them gallop!  She bent again over
+her companion and, taking the snow that lay on the side of the sleigh,
+she bathed the wound with it, staunching the flow with her
+handkerchief, holding his head against her breast.
+
+"Velasco!" she whispered low, as if afraid he might waken and hear: "It
+is better now.  The wound has stopped bleeding--only a drop or two
+comes on my handkerchief!  You struck it on the runners as you fell; I
+will bind it now with my scarf.  Velasco--dear Velasco!  Open your eyes
+and look at me--smile at me!  We are safe.  We are alone in the forest
+and the horses are galloping.  Soon we shall be at the station--in the
+train!  A few hours from the frontier--only a few hours--Velasco!"
+
+He stirred in her arms and moaned, and his eye-lids quivered as if
+trying to open.  Kaya took the scarf from her waist and began to wind
+it slowly about the wound on his forehead.  Her breath came in little
+gasps through her parted lips.
+
+"Have I your blood too on my hands, Velasco?  Ah, waken and look at me!
+We have only a few hours more together--a few hours!  Then you will
+never see me again.  Never--never!"
+
+She clasped him closer to her breast and bent over him in terror.
+"Don't die, Velasco!  The wound has stopped bleeding.  Why don't you
+open your eyes?  Don't die!  If you die I shall die too.  I love you,
+Velasco!  I love you--I love you!"
+
+She laid her cheek to his cold one and tried to warm it.  She covered
+him with her cloak.  It grew darker and colder, and the horses galloped
+on.  Presently he stirred again in her arms and opened his eyes, and
+they looked at one another.
+
+"Kaya" he said, "I heard you--I heard you!"
+
+She shrank back away from him: "You heard--me?" she stammered.
+
+Then he fainted again.
+
+The horses galloped on.  The fields of snow stretched in the distance,
+the frost on the surface glittering like myriads of tiny dew-drops.
+Through the inky blackness of the clouds the moon shone out fitfully,
+Streaking the road with flashes of light, pale and shadowy.  Ahead
+gleamed the lamps of the station.  The hoofs rang on the frozen snow.
+
+Suddenly Velasco lifted his head from the breast of Kaya.  He steadied
+himself and sat upright in the seat.  The wound was bound about by the
+red scarf and his face looked white in the faint moon-beams.  There was
+blood on his jacket and the folds of his vest, and the scarf was
+spotted with crimson blotches.
+
+He stared straight ahead at the tossing manes of the horses, their
+galloping bodies, three abreast, plunging and straining in the harness;
+the reins knotted to the dash-board; the dark, winding road bordered by
+snow-drifts; the lights in the distance looming nearer, and the bulk of
+the station.  His eyes were shining under the bandage, wide-open
+beneath the brows.
+
+Kaya drew away from him slowly, burying herself in the corner of the
+sleigh, drawing the buffalo robe close about her and trembling.  The
+cold was bitter.
+
+He drank in the icy air in long breaths, and it seemed to give him
+strength, to clear the fumes of the brain.  He was like one who has
+been drowning and is coming to life again gradually.  Suddenly he
+turned and they faced one another.  The hoofs rang against the ice,
+pounding forward; the sleigh was lurching, and the runners slipped and
+slid in the snow.
+
+"Kaya!"
+
+"Velasco."
+
+He put his arms out and they closed around her; he drew her nearer and
+nearer with all the strength in his body, and she yielded slowly,
+resisting and weak.  She yielded until his lips were on hers, and then
+she flung out her arms with a little cry and they clung together,
+closely, silently.
+
+The horses galloped on and the sleigh lurched faster--and faster.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+The night train steamed swiftly through the darkness, the cars swaying
+from side to side of the track, and the couplings clanging and jolting.
+It was warm inside the compartments and the air made a thick steam on
+the windows, hiding the snowfields and the station as the train rushed
+thundering past.  In one of the third-class compartments two gypsies
+sat together with their heads close to the window, peering out.
+
+"Half an hour now, Velasco."
+
+"Twenty-two minutes, Kaya."
+
+"Now, only twelve."
+
+"Are the passports ready, Velasco?"
+
+"They are here, little one.  There is Virballen now in the distance;
+can you see the roofs and the eagle floating?  In another moment,
+another second--!"
+
+The two gypsies sat quiet, straining their eyes through the steam; then
+the dark one rose suddenly and adjusted the strap of his knapsack,
+taking his violin in his hand.
+
+"The train is slowing up now, Kaya, come!  Follow me close, and look
+neither to the right nor the left."
+
+The two sprang from the train, and hurrying into the customs-room of
+the station were soon lost in the crowd.  The minutes dragged slowly.
+
+"Do you see that paling, Kaya?  The other side of it is Germany--is
+freedom."
+
+"I know, Velasco--I know!"
+
+"Your heart is beating and throbbing, Kaya; your jacket tosses like a
+ship in a storm.  Fold your arms over its fluttering, little one, that
+the guards may not see.  They are coming now."
+
+"Pray--Velasco!"
+
+"To whom should I pray?  The Tsar perhaps--or the Icon over yonder?"
+The gypsey laughed, holding out the passports.  He was swaggering with
+his hands in his pockets, and when the official spoke to him, he
+shrugged his shoulders and answered in dialect.
+
+"Bohemian!" he said, "Yes--gypsies!  We earn our living on the road, my
+comrade and I--eh, Bradjaga?"  With that, he clapped Kaya on the
+shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin,
+no--no, only this--and that!"
+
+He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in
+his hand.
+
+"What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly
+at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey."
+
+The girl started back for a moment, her shoulder brushing the shoulder
+of Velasco; then she lifted her blue eyes to the official, and her
+heart seemed to leap and bound like a wild thing caged.  She began to
+stammer, shrinking back against her companion.  A bell sounded suddenly
+in the office behind them and the official started:
+
+"A telegraph despatch!" he said, "Ha--I must go!"
+
+The girl sprang forward and clutched his sleeve: "Don't go!" she said,
+"You ask what I can do--I can dance!  We will show you, my comrade and
+I.  In a moment the doors will be unlocked; wait until the doors are
+unlocked!  We will give you a performance now, a special performance
+such as the Tsar himself has heard and seen--Play!"
+
+She waved Her hand to Velasco, and in a moment the violin was out of
+its wrappings and held to his cheek.  He was playing a wild, strange
+rhythm and Kaya was dancing.  The crowd made a circle about them, and
+the official stood in the centre transfixed, open-mouthed.
+
+The violin was like a creature alive, it sobbed and laughed; and when
+it sobbed, the little figure of the dancer swayed slowly, languidly,
+like a flower blown to and fro by the breeze; and when it laughed, the
+rhythm quickened suddenly in a rush like an avalanche falling, and the
+figure sprang out into the air, turning, twisting, pirouetting; every
+movement graceful, intense, full of feeling and passion.
+
+The crowd about the gypsies stood spell-bound; the official never
+stirred.  The bell rang again and again.  Every time it rang, a new
+impetus seemed to seize the dancer.  Her feet in the heavy boots seemed
+scarcely to touch the ground; the green of the velveteen was like the
+colour of a kaleidoscope, and the gold of her curls glittered and
+sparkled under the cap.  The crowd swayed with the rhythm; they grew
+drunk with it and their bodies quivered as they watched.  The minutes
+passed like a flash.
+
+Suddenly there came a creak in the lock; the key turned and the great
+doors opened, the doors towards Germany.  Beyond was the long line of
+paling; the flag with the eagle floating; the sentinels with their
+muskets over their shoulders.  A step and then--
+
+The dancer made a little rush forward, gave a spring in the air and
+then bowed, snatching off the cap.
+
+"Messieurs--Mesdames!"
+
+She held the cap in her two hands, eagerly, pleadingly, and the silver
+fell into it.  Copecks--ten--twenty--hundreds of them, and roubles,
+round and heavy; they clinked as they fell.
+
+"I thank you!" cried the gypsey, "Good-bye, Messieurs--Mesdames!  Au
+revoir!"
+
+She bowed again, backing towards the door, the cap still held between
+her hands, the Violinist following.
+
+"Adieu!  Au revoir!"
+
+The crowd clapped noisily, cheering until the great, bare station of
+the customs rang and re-echoed.
+
+"Au revoir!  Adieu!"
+
+The gypsies backed together, smiling, bowing; they passed through the
+door.  They reached the paling--the sentinels; the flag with the eagle
+floated over their heads; then a click, and the gate closed behind them.
+
+They were on German soil.  They were free--they were free.
+
+
+"Kaya!" said Velasco.
+
+The room at the inn was small and very still.  The shades were down,
+and over in the corner, beyond the couch, a single candle was burning.
+
+"Are you awake, Kaya?" said Velasco softly, bending over the couch
+until his curls brushed hers, and his lips were close to her rosy cheek.
+
+"I have watched so long for your eyes to open, Kaya!  My--wife."
+
+The girl moved uneasily on the pillow.
+
+"My wife--Kaya!"
+
+He put his arms about her and she lay still for a moment, scarcely
+breathing.  Then she spoke:
+
+"I am not your wife, Velasco.  Take your arms away."
+
+"Your cheek is so soft, Kaya; the centre is like a red rose blushing.
+Let me rest my cheek against it."
+
+"Take your cheek away--Velasco."
+
+"Your lips are arched like a bow, so red, so sweet!  When I press
+them--I press--them!"
+
+"Velasco--Velasco!  Take your lips--away!"
+
+The girl half rose on her pillow, pushing him back; striking at him
+feebly with her bare hands; "Go--don't touch me!  I have been asleep--I
+am mad!  I am not your wife--Velasco!  We must part at once--I tell
+you, we must part!"
+
+Velasco laughed: "Part!" he said, "You and I, Kaya?--Part?  Have you
+forgotten the church, the priest in his surplice, the dark nave and the
+candles?  We knelt side by side.  You are my wife and I am your
+husband.  Kaya, we can never part in life or in death."
+
+The girl put her hand to her breast: "It was only a 'Nihilistic
+marriage,' Velasco, you know what that means!  A mere form for the sake
+of the certificate, the papers--just to show for the passport that we
+might go together."  Her voice came through her throat roughly as if it
+hurt her.
+
+Velasco laughed again shortly: "What is that to me?" he said, "We were
+married; you are my wife.  Put your hands down, Kaya--let me take you
+in my arms.  You know--throughout the journey, when we were tramping
+through the snow and the cold, I treated you as a comrade, for your
+sake.  You asked it.  You know--Kaya?  And now--now we are in Germany;
+we are gypsies no longer.  You are the Countess and I am Velasco--your
+husband, Kaya, your--husband."
+
+He stretched out his arms to her, and his eyes were like sparks of
+light under his brows, gleaming.  His hands trembled: "Look at me,
+Kaya, look at me.  Why do you torment me?"
+
+The girl thrust her hand slowly into the breast of her jacket and drew
+out a paper.  "You lost it," she said, "in the prison.  I found it on
+the floor.  The--the certificate of our marriage.  I swore that
+night--if we reached the frontier I would--Velasco, don't touch me!--I
+would destroy it!"
+
+She held it away from him and her eyes gazed into his.
+
+"You would never destroy it, Kaya!" He looked at her and then he gave a
+cry: "Stop--Kaya!"
+
+She had torn the paper across into strips and was flinging the pieces
+from her; she was laughing.  "You, my husband, Velasco?  Are you mad?
+The daughter of General Mezkarpin marry a musician!  Our family is one
+of the oldest in Russia and yours--!"  She laughed again wildly,
+clasping her hands to her throat.  "You are mad--Velasco!"
+
+He looked at her steadily.  "Tell me the truth," he said, "Do you love
+me, or do you not love me?  Yes, or no."
+
+"No, Velasco.  You were kind to me--you saved my life; I am grateful.
+If it had not been for you--"  Then she laughed again, staggering to
+her feet.  "Love you?  No--no!  A thousand times--no!"
+
+"That is a lie," said Velasco.  "You are trembling all over like a
+leaf.  Your cheeks are ashy.  The tears are welling up in your eyes
+like a veil over the blue.  You are breathless--you are sobbing."
+
+He flung his arms around her and pressed her head to his breast,
+kissing the curls.  "Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms!  The gods
+only know why you said it, but it isn't the truth!  You love me--say
+you love me!  You said it in the sleigh when I was stunned, half
+conscious!  Say it again--Kaya!  The certificate is nothing.  Does love
+need a certificate?"  He laughed aloud.  "Say it, Kaya--let me hear
+you, my beloved!"
+
+She was silent, clinging to him; she had stopped struggling.  Her eyes
+were closed and he kissed her fiercely on the lips again and again.
+Presently he was frightened, and a chill of terror and foreboding stole
+over him.
+
+"Look at me, Kaya--open your eyes!  Have I hurt you--was I too rough?
+Are you angry?  I love you so!  The whole world is nothing; art is
+nothing; fame is nothing.  I would sell my Stradivarius for the touch
+of your fingers in mine, Kaya!  I would give my soul for a look in your
+eyes!  Ah, open them--dearest!"
+
+His voice shook and was hoarse, and he held her away from him, gazing
+down at her face and the panting of her breast.  "Tell me you love
+me--Kaya!"
+
+Suddenly she stiffened until her body was straight and unbending as
+steel, and the strength came back to her slowly.  She opened her eyes
+and the veil was gone; they were flashing and hard.  "You use your
+strength like a coward, Velasco," she said.  "Can you force love?  I
+told you the truth."
+
+She pointed to the fragments of paper on the floor with her finger,
+scornfully: "There lies the bond between us," she said, "See--it is
+shattered; it lies at our feet.  You will go on your way from here
+alone, to fill your engagements, and I--"  She hesitated and stopped
+again, as one who is afraid of stumbling.
+
+Her arms stiffened, and her hands, and her whole body; and she drew
+away from him, avoiding his eyes, and looking only at the fragments of
+paper on the floor.
+
+"Good-bye now--Velasco," she said.
+
+He looked at her, and he was trembling and shaking from head to foot,
+like one in a chill.  His teeth were clenched and his eyes were
+bloodshot; the pulses beat in his temples.
+
+"My God!" he cried, "If it is true--if you don't love me!  If--"
+
+Kaya stretched out her hand to him, catching her breath.  "Good-bye,
+Velasco--"
+
+He turned on her fiercely, and raised his arm as if he would have
+struck her: "You are cruel!" he said, crying out, "You are not a
+woman!"  He caught her by the shoulders and held her, looking down into
+her eyes, with his face close to hers.
+
+"Swear it!" he cried, "Swear it if you can--if you dare!  Swear you
+don't love--me."
+
+She looked at him and her lips trembled.
+
+"Swear it!"
+
+She nodded.
+
+A cry burst from his throat, like that of an animal, wounded, at bay.
+His blood-shot eyes stared at her for a moment, and then he flung her
+from him with all his strength and turning, dashed from the room.
+
+The door slammed.
+
+The girl reeled backward, putting her hands to her face.  Then, as the
+echo of his footsteps died away on the stairs, she fell on her knees,
+crouching and sobbing.
+
+"He is gone!" she cried out, the words coming in little moans through
+her clenched teeth.  "He is gone!  Velasco is gone!"
+
+Her form shook in a torrent of weeping, and she took her hands from her
+face and wrung them together.  "I love him!" she said, "I love him!  If
+he had stayed!  No--no, I am mad!  I am cursed--cursed by the Black
+Cross.  There is blood on my hands!"
+
+She held them out before her, and they trembled and shook.  "Blood!"
+she cried, "I see it--red--dripping!  It fell from his wound on my hand
+and nothing will wash it away!  Nothing!"  Her voice died away to a
+whisper and she knelt, staring at her hands with eyes wild and dilated:
+
+"Not even his love," she said, "not even his love could wash it away.
+It would spread--he too would be cursed.  He--too!"  Then she flung
+herself on the floor and buried her head against the side of the couch,
+clinging to it, with her body convulsed:
+
+"Come back, Velasco!" she stammered, "I am weak--come back!  Put your
+arms around me--kiss me again!  Don't be angry.  Don't look at me like
+that!  Velasco--I won't leave you!  I--I love you!  Come back!"
+
+She lay still, shuddering.
+
+Outside, in the street, came the clatter of wheels passing and the
+cries of a street vendor; far off came the whistle of a locomotive.
+Kaya dragged herself to her feet slowly, stumbling a little.  She
+passed her hands over her eyes once or twice, as if blinded; then
+feebly, like one who has just recovered from a long illness, she
+tottered towards the door and opened it.
+
+Her head was bare and her curls covered it in a tangle of gold; her
+jacket and trousers were old and faded, patched at the elbows, torn at
+the knees.  The tears had dried on her cheeks.  She gazed ahead
+steadily without looking back; and the blue of her eyes was like the
+blue of the sky at night-fall, darkened and shadowy.
+
+At the bend of the stairway she stumbled, half falling; then she
+steadied herself, clinging to the balustrade with her hands--and went
+on.
+
+
+It was day-light, and the cocks were all crowing when Velasco returned.
+When he opened the door the candle burned low in its socket, and the
+sun-rays came filtering in through the windows.  The room was deserted.
+He was muddy and footsore; his face looked haggard and old, and it was
+lined with deep furrows.  His dark eyes were listless and weary, and
+his cheeks colourless.
+
+"Kaya," he said, "are you here?  Kaya!"
+
+He looked on the couch, but it was empty; behind the curtains, but
+there was nothing; out of the windows, but there was only the street
+below.  His eyes had a dazed look.
+
+"Kaya!" he cried.
+
+On the floor lay a boy's cap, torn, rakish, faded with the sun and the
+snow of their wanderings--a little, green cap.  Velasco stared at it
+for a moment.
+
+Then suddenly he snatched it to his lips with a sob, and buried his
+head in his arms.
+
+
+
+
+THE BLACK CROSS
+
+PART II
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+Ehrestadt lies in a plain.
+
+The walls of the old city have been leveled into broad promenades,
+shaded with nut-trees, encircling the town as with a girdle of green.
+Beyond, a new city has sprung up, spreading like a mushroom; but within
+the girdle the streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses gabled;
+leaning to one another as if seeking support for their ancient
+foundations, with only a line of sky in between.
+
+At the corner of the promenade, just where the old city and the new
+city meet, is a tumble-down mill.  It is called the Nonnen-Mühle, and
+it has been there ever since Ehrestadt first came into existence, as is
+evident from the bulging of the walls, and the wood of the casements,
+rotten and worm-eaten.  The river winds underneath it, and the great
+spoked wheel turns slowly, tossing the water into a cloud of yellow
+foam, flinging the spray afar into the dark, flowing stream, catching
+it again; playing with it, half sportive, half fierce, like some
+monster alive.
+
+As the wheel turns, the sound of its teeth grinding is steady and
+rhythmical, like a theme in the bass; and the river splashes the
+accompaniment, gurgling and sighing in a minor key, as if in complaint.
+
+It was Johannestag.[1]
+
+The citizens of Ehrestadt were walking on the promenade, dressed in
+their best; the men strutting, the women hanging on their arms, the
+children toddling behind.  In the square a band was playing; the nut
+trees were in full leaf, and the air was warm and sweet with the scent
+of the rose buds.  The wheel of the mill had stopped.
+
+Just under the peak of the roof was a small window gabled, with a broad
+sill, and casements that opened outwards, overlooking the promenade.
+The sill was scarlet with geraniums, and the window itself was grown
+partly over and half smothered in a veiling of ivy.  Behind the window
+was a garret, small like a cell; the roof sloping to the eaves.
+
+There was nothing in the garret excepting a pallet-bed in the corner,
+under the eaves, and in the opposite corner a box on which stood a
+pitcher and basin; the basin was cracked; the pitcher was without a
+handle.  On the wall hung a few articles of clothing on pegs; and the
+slope of the roof was grey and misty with cob-webs.  Otherwise the
+garret was bare.
+
+Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy
+and the geraniums, was a girl.  Her head was propped in her hands, and
+her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the
+scarlet.  She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and
+her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one.
+
+She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the
+throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped,
+lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her
+ears and her brow.  Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched
+look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes.  She gazed steadily.
+
+"If I could only see him," she murmured to herself, half aloud, "just
+once--if I could see him!"  Her lip trembled a little and she caught it
+between her teeth: "It is seventeen weeks--a hundred and nineteen
+days--since we parted," she said, "At daybreak on Thursday it will be a
+third of a year--a third of a year!"
+
+She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment
+against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; "Sooner
+or later he was sure to come here," she murmured, "All musicians come
+here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day--and his
+name--!"  She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the
+ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips,
+shaking them as with a storm.
+
+"If he were there on the promenade," she said, "and I saw him walking,
+with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming--Ah!"  She
+drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like
+a screw turned.  She half closed her eyes.
+
+"Ah--Velasco!  My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips
+would cry to you!  I would clinch my teeth--I would pinion my arms to
+my side.  I would hide here behind the casement and gaze at you between
+the leaves of the geraniums--and you would never know!  You would
+never--know!"
+
+She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that
+was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: "He is an artist," she
+said, "a great musician, fêted, adored; he is rich and happy.  He will
+forget.  Perhaps he has forgotten already.  It would be better if he
+had forgotten--already."  She laughed  again strangely, glancing about
+the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet,
+and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing.
+
+The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if
+seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink
+claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes,
+pruning their feathers.  The girl shook her head:
+
+"I have nothing for you," she said, "No--not a crumb.  The last went
+yesterday.  Poor birds!  It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head
+swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before
+your eyes.  Is it so with you, dear doves?"
+
+She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the
+pegs where the clothes hung.
+
+"There may be a few Pfennigs left," she said, "without touching that.
+No--no, there is nothing!"
+
+She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners
+with the tips of her fingers, searching.  "No," she repeated
+helplessly, "there is--nothing; still I can't touch the other--not
+to-day!  I will go out and try again."
+
+She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite
+of the heat, covering her throat.  There was a hat also on the peg; she
+put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face.
+
+"If I could only get a hearing!" she said to herself, "There must be
+someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an
+opening.  I will try once more, and then--"
+
+She buttoned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out.
+
+
+"Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?"
+
+"Yes, Madame."
+
+The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered
+doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt.
+
+"Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean."
+
+"He is in, Madame, but he is engaged."
+
+"May I come in and wait?"
+
+The maid hesitated again: "What name shall I say, Madame?"
+
+"My name," said Kaya, "is Mademoiselle de--de Poussin."
+
+The German words came stumbling from her lips.  She crossed the
+threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room
+beyond.  There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about
+the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano
+stood a cello.
+
+Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to
+the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly.  From the
+next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a
+sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars
+freshly lighted.
+
+The girl threw back her veil, scenting it as a doe the breeze when it
+is thirsty and cannot drink.  She smiled a little, still caressing the
+keys with her fingers.  "It is strange to be hungry," she said, "The
+Countess Mezkarpin was never hungry!"  Then suddenly she started and
+turned white to the lips, swaying forward with her eyes dilated.
+
+From behind the curtain came voices talking together; one was harsh and
+rather loud, and the other--  Kaya's eyes were fixed on the curtain;
+she rose slowly from the divan and crept forward on tip-toe, a step at
+a time.  The other!--She listened.  No, it was the harsh voice talking
+rapidly, loudly in German, and what he was saying she could not
+understand; then came the clatter of cups again, and silence, and a
+fresh whiff of cigar smoke floating, wafted through the curtain.
+
+She crept closer, still listening, her hands clasped together, the
+cloak flung back from her shoulders.
+
+"The other--there!"
+
+She put out her hand and touched the curtain, pulling it aside
+slightly, timidly, and pressing her face, her eyes to the opening.  She
+was faint for a moment and could see nothing; there was a mist before
+her eyes and the smoke filled the room; then gradually, out of the
+mist, she saw a grey-haired man with his back to the curtain, and he
+was bending forward with a coffee cup to his lips.  Beside him, facing
+her, leaning far back in his chair, with his cigar poised and his eyes
+half closed, his dark head pressing restlessly against the cushion was--
+
+"Oh, my God!" she breathed, "My God, it is Velasco!"
+
+For a moment she thought she had screamed; and she covered her eyes
+waiting, sick, frightened, her heart throbbing.  Then she forgot where
+she was and thought only of him, and a strange little thrill went over
+her; she shivered slightly, and it seemed to her as if already she was
+in his arms; and when she heard his voice, it was calling to her,
+crying her name.
+
+"Yes--yes, it is Kaya!--I am here!" she was saying, "Come to
+me--Velasco!  Velasco!"
+
+Already she was stumbling into his arms; she was clinging to him--and
+then she awoke.  Her brain cleared suddenly and she knew that she had
+not moved; no sound had come from her lips.  She was standing like a
+statue, dumb, with her hands clasped, gazing; and Velasco lay back in
+his chair with his eyes half closed, blowing a wreath from his cigar,
+watching it idly as it floated away, listening as the harsh voice of
+his host talked on--not five feet away!  If she stretched out her hand,
+if she sighed--or moved the curtain--Ah!
+
+She struggled with herself.  She was faint; she was weak with hunger;
+she was alone and desolate--and he loved her.  She fought madly,
+desperately.  It was as if two creatures were within her fighting for
+life; and they both loved him.
+
+When the one grew stronger, her eyes brightened and her pulses
+quickened; it was as if she would leap through the curtain, and her
+heart was sick for the touch of his hand.  Then she beat down the
+longing and stifled it, and the other self came to the front and
+gripped her scornfully, pointing to her hands with the blood on them,
+her soul with its curse.  Was her life to mingle with his and ruin it,
+and bring it to shame?
+
+"Never," she breathed, "Never!  So long as I live!"  And the self of
+her that loved him the most crushed the other self and smothered
+it--strangled it.
+
+She gazed at him through the curtain, and it seemed to her that
+something within her was gasping and dying.  And suddenly she turned
+and ran from the curtain, clasping her cloak to her bosom and running,
+stumbling, out of the room, the house, the street.
+
+The promenades were gay with people and crowded.  The men strutting
+along in their Sunday clothes, the women hanging on their arms, the
+children toddling behind.  The band was playing on the square.  It was
+warm and the sun was shining; the air was sweet with the scent of the
+rose buds.
+
+Kaya fled past them all like a wraith.  They turned and stared after
+her, but she was gone.  She climbed the stairs of the mill to the roof,
+and opened the door, and shut it again, and fell on her knees before
+the box.  The pitcher was there without a handle, and the basin
+cracked.  She lifted them away and opened the box.
+
+In it lay a velveteen jacket folded, a scarf, scarlet and spotted.
+Inside the scarf lay a mass of coins, copecks, ten, twenty--hundreds of
+them, and roubles round and heavy.  She fingered them tenderly, one
+after the other, then thrust them aside.
+
+"To-morrow--" she said, "I have come to that--to live on a gypsey's
+wages!  I can sing no longer; I can only dance and pass the cap--and
+give the copecks for bread--for bread!  I thought some day when I was
+old,--when we were both old, I would show them to--Velasco, and he
+would remember and laugh: 'Ah, that was long ago,' he would say, 'when
+I was a boy, and you were a boy, and we tramped together through the
+cold and the snow--and I loved you, and you--loved me!  Ah--it was
+sweet, Kaya!  I have lived a long life since then, with plenty of fame,
+and success, and happiness--and the years have been full; but nothing
+quite so sweet as that!  Nothing--quite so sweet--as that!'"
+
+She was sobbing now and staring into the box: "To-morrow," she said, "I
+will buy some bread and feed the doves--and soon it will be gone!"  She
+began to count the coins rapidly, dropping them through her fingers
+into the scarf; and as she counted she smiled through her tears.
+
+"We earned it together--he and I!" she said, "He played and I danced.
+He would like me to live on it as long as I can, and then--after
+that--he will not--blame me!"
+
+Her body swayed slightly and she fell forward against the box.  The sun
+shone on the geraniums; and on the sill, the doves pecked at the
+worm-eaten casement, clinging to the ivy with their tiny claws, gazing
+about with their bright, roving eyes and cooing.
+
+Below, the water splashed against the wheel; but it was silent.
+
+
+
+[1] St. John's day.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV.
+
+The stage of the Opera House was crowded with the chorus.  It was ten
+o'clock in the morning, but the day was rainy and the light that came
+from the windows at the back of the proscenium was feeble and dim, and
+the House itself was quite dark.  The seats stretched out bare and
+ghostly, row after row; and beyond a dark cavern seemed yawning,
+mysterious and empty, the sound of the voices echoing and resounding
+through spaces of silence.
+
+In the centre of the stage stood the Conductor, mounted on a small
+platform with his desk before him; and around him were the chorus,
+huddled and watchful as sheep about a shepherd.  He was tapping the
+desk with his baton and calling out to them, and the voices had ceased.
+
+"Meine Herren--meine Damen!" he cried, "How you sing!  It is like the
+squealing of guinea-pigs--and the tenors are false!  Mein Gott!  Stick
+to the notes, gentlemen, and sing in the middle of the tone.  There
+now, once more.  Begin on the D."
+
+Kapellmeister Ritter glanced over his chorus with a fierce, compelling
+motion of his baton.  He was like a general, compact and trim of figure
+with a short, pointed beard, and hair also short that was swiftly
+turning to grey.  The only thing that suggested the musician was the
+heaviness and swelling of his brows, and the delicacy of his hands and
+wrists, which were white, like a woman's, of an extraordinary
+suppleness and full of power; hands that were watched instinctively and
+obeyed.  The eyes of the entire chorus were fixed on them now, gazing
+as if hypnotized, and hanging on every movement of his beat.
+
+"Na--na!" he cried, "Was that F, I ask you?  You bellow like bulls!
+Again--again, I tell you!  On the D and approach the note softly.
+
+"Hist-st!--Pianissimo!"
+
+He stamped his foot in vexation and the baton struck the desk sharply:
+"Again--the sopranos alone!  Hist!  Piano--piano I say!  Potztausend!"
+
+The chorus glanced at one another sheepishly and a flush crept over the
+faces of the sopranos.  The Kapellmeister was in a bad mood to-day;
+nothing suited him, and he beat the desk as if he would have liked to
+strike them all and fling the baton at their heads.
+
+"Sheep!" he said, "Oxen--cows!  You have no temperament, no
+feeling--nothing--nothing!  Where are your souls?  Haven't you any
+souls?  Don't you hear what I say?  Piano!  P-i-a-n-o!  When I say
+piano, do I mean forte?"
+
+He shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes flashed scornfully over the
+stage and the singers.  "Now ladies, attention if you please!  Look at
+me--keep your eyes on my baton!  Now--piano!"
+
+The voices of the sopranos rose softly.
+
+"Crescendo!"  They increased.
+
+"Donnerwetter!  May the devil take you!  Crescendo, I say!  Crescendo!
+Do you need all day to make crescendo?"  He shrieked at them; and then,
+in a tempest of rage, he flung the baton down and leaped from the
+platform.
+
+"Enough!" he said, "My teeth are on edge; my ears burn!  Sit down.--Is
+Fraulein Neumann here?"
+
+A stout woman in a red blouse stepped timidly forward.
+
+"Oh, you are, are you?  Well, Madame, you haven't distinguished
+yourself so far; perhaps you will do better alone.  Have you the score?"
+
+"Yes, Herr Kapellmeister."
+
+"Begin then."
+
+The soprano took a long breath and her cheeks grew red like her blouse.
+She watched the eyes of the leader, and there was a light in them that
+she mistrusted, a reddish glimmer that boded evil to any who crossed
+him.
+
+She began tremulously.
+
+"Stop."
+
+She started again.
+
+"Your voice quavers like a jews'-harp.  What's the matter with you?"
+
+"I don't know, Herr Kapellmeister, it was all right when I tried it
+this morning."
+
+"Well, it's all wrong now."
+
+The soprano bit her lips: "I am doing my best, Herr Kapellmeister," she
+said, "It is very difficult to take that high A without the orchestra."
+Her tone was slightly defiant, but she dropped her eyes when he stared
+at her.
+
+"Humph!" he said, "Very difficult!  You expect the orchestra to cover
+your shake I suppose.  Go home and study it, Madame.  Siegfried would
+listen in vain for a bird if you were in the flies.  He would never
+recognize that--pah!"  He waved his hand:
+
+"Where is the Fraulein who wanted her voice tried?" he said curtly, "If
+she is present she may come forward."  He took out his watch and
+glanced at it.  "The chorus may wait," he said, "Look at your scores
+meanwhile, meine Herren, meine Damen--and notice the marks!
+
+"Ah, Madame."
+
+A slim figure with a cloak about her shoulders, bareheaded, approached
+from the wings; her curls, cut short like a boy's, sparkled and
+gleamed.  The Kapellmeister surveyed her coldly as she drew nearer, and
+then he turned and seated himself at the piano.
+
+"Your voice," he said shortly, "Hm--what?"
+
+"Soprano, Monsieur."
+
+"We have enough sopranos--too many now! We don't know what to do with
+them all."
+
+The girl shivered a little under the cloak.
+
+"Oh!" she faltered, "Then you won't hear me?"
+
+"I never said I wouldn't hear you, Madame; I simply warned you.  If you
+were alto now--but for a soprano there is one chance in a thousand,
+unless--"  He struck a chord on the piano.
+
+The chorus sat very still.  The trying of a new voice was always a
+diversion; it was more amusing to watch the grilling of a victim than
+to be scorched themselves; and the Kapellmeister in that mood--oh Je!
+They smiled warily at one another behind their scores, and stared at
+the slight, girlish figure beside the pianoforte.
+
+She was stooping a little as if near-sighted, looking over the shoulder
+of the Conductor at the music on the piano rack.
+
+"Can you read at sight, Madame?"
+
+"Yes," said Kaya.
+
+"Have you ever seen this before?"
+
+"I studied it--once."
+
+"This?"
+
+"I studied that too."
+
+"So," he said, "Then you either have a voice, or you haven't, one or
+the other.  Where did you study?"
+
+The girl hesitated a moment; then she bent lower and whispered to him:
+"St. Petersburg, Monsieur, with Helmanoff."
+
+"The great Helmanoff?"
+
+"Yes, Monsieur."
+
+"You are not French then, you are Russian?  They told me Mademoiselle
+Pou--Pou--"
+
+"That is not my real name."
+
+"No?"
+
+Kaya quivered a moment:  "I am--Russian," she said, "I am an exile.
+Don't ask, Monsieur--not here!  I am--I am afraid."
+
+The Kapellmeister went on improvising arpeggios on the piano as if he
+had not heard.  He seemed to be pondering.  "That name--" he said,
+"Pou--Poussin!  Someone called on me the other day of that name.  I
+remember it, because when I came in she was gone.  Was it you?"
+
+The girl stood silent.
+
+He turned suddenly and looked at her: "You are young," he said, "and
+too slim to have a voice.  Na--child!  You are trembling as if you had
+a chill, and the House is like an oven.  Come--don't be frightened.
+The chorus are owls; they can stare and screech, but they know nothing.
+Sit down here by me and sing what you choose.  Let your voice out."
+
+"Shall I sing a Russian song, Monsieur?"
+
+"Very well."
+
+The Kapellmeister leaned back in his chair with his arms folded.  He
+gave one fierce glance at the chorus over his shoulder.  "Hush!" he
+cried, "No noise if you please.  Attend to your scores, or go out.
+Now, Fraulein--sing."
+
+Kaya pushed the chair to one side and moved closer to the piano,
+leaning on it and gazing out into the darkened House, at the rows of
+seats, ghostly and empty, and the black cave beyond.  A Volkslied came
+to her mind, one she had heard as a child and been rocked to, a peasant
+song, simple and touching.  Her lips parted slightly.
+
+For a moment there was silence; then the tones came like a breath, soft
+and pianissimo, clear as the trill of a bird in the forest wooing its
+mate.  It rose and fell, swelling out, filling the spaces, echoing
+through the vault.
+
+  "On the mountain-top were two little doves;
+  Their wings were soft, they shimmered and shone.
+  Dear little doves, pray a prayer--a prayer
+  For the son of Fedotjen, Michäel--Michäel,
+  For he is alone--alone."
+
+
+With the last word, repeated, half whispered, the voice died away
+again; and she stood there, still leaning against the piano and
+clasping her hands, looking at the Kapellmeister with her blue eyes
+dark and pleading, like two wells.  "Will it do?" she said with her
+voice faltering, "Will you take me, Herr Director--in the chorus?"
+
+The Kapellmeister shrugged his shoulders: "You have no voice for a
+chorus," he said roughly, "Try this."
+
+"I know," said Kaya, "My voice is not as it was.  Helmanoff--" she
+laughed unsteadily, "He would be so angry if he heard me, and tell me
+to study, just as you told the Mademoiselle who went out; but I will do
+better, Monsieur, believe me.  I will work so hard, and my voice will
+come back in time after--"  She gazed at him and a mist came over her
+eyes.  "Do take me," she said, "I beg you to take me--I beg you."
+
+The Kapellmeister passed his hand over his face: "Tschut, child!" he
+said, "What are you talking about?  Be quiet now and sing this as I
+tell you.  You have heard it before?"
+
+"Yes, I have heard it."
+
+"And sung it perhaps with Helmanoff?"
+
+"Yes--Monsieur."
+
+He handed her the score, running his fingers over the bird motive of
+'Siegfried,' giving her the key.  Then he leaned back again and folded
+his arms.
+
+Kaya gave her head a little backward movement as if to free her throat,
+and threw off the cloak, standing straight.
+
+[Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"]
+
+The tones came out like the sound of a flute, high and pure; they rose
+in her throat, swelling it out as she sang, pouring through the arch of
+her lips without effort or strain.
+
+"Bravo!" cried the Director, "Um Himmel's Willen, child, you have a
+voice like a lark rising in the meadows, and you sing--Bravo!  Bravo!"
+
+He put out his hands and took the girl's trembling ones into his own.
+
+"You will take me?" she said, "You see, when I am not so nervous it
+will go better."
+
+The Kapellmeister laughed and took a card out of his pocket: "Write
+your name here," he said, "Your real one.  I won't tell--and your
+address."
+
+Kaya drew back suddenly: "I live in the mill," she said, "You know, the
+Nonnen-Mühle by the promenade?  You won't let any one know, will you,
+Monsieur, because--"
+
+"Are you afraid of spies, child?  Tut, the chorus can't hear.  I won't
+tell a soul."
+
+"No one?"
+
+"On my honour--no one.  Now, your name?"
+
+She looked away from him a moment; then she took the pencil and wrote
+on the card in small, running letters: "Marya Pulitsin."
+
+"So that's your real name, is it?"
+
+Her eyes were clear and blue like a child's.  "No," she said, "--no."
+And she glanced back over her shoulder with her finger to her lips.
+
+"Never mind," said the Kapellmeister.  "You are white, child, what are
+you afraid of?  There are no spies here!  Give me the card.  That is a
+strange place to live in--the Nonnen-Mühle!  I didn't know anyone lived
+there, excepting the old man who takes charge of the mill.  Well, in a
+day or so--perhaps towards the end of the week you will hear from me."
+He waved to the chorus.
+
+"Stand up, meine Herren, meine Damen!" he said, "Get your scores ready.
+Good-bye now, Fraulein.--Donnerwetter!  What ails you?"
+
+"If you want to try my voice again," said Kaya timidly, "Would you
+mind, sir, trying it to-day?--This afternoon, or even this evening?"
+
+"Now by all that is holy, why, pray?  I have the solos to-night, and
+this afternoon a rehearsal for 'Siegfried.'"  The Kapellmeister
+frowned: "Do you think I have nothing on earth to do, child, but run
+after voices?"
+
+"Oh!" cried Kaya, "I didn't mean that!  I beg your pardon.  It doesn't
+matter--I do beg your pardon, Herr Director."  She flushed suddenly,
+and started away from him, as if to put the piano between them and flee
+towards the door.
+
+He looked at her narrowly, and the harsh lines came back to his face.
+"A pest on these singers!" he muttered under his breath, "They are all
+alike--they want coddling.  She thinks perhaps she is a Patti and is
+planning for her salary already.  Potztausend!  Bewahre!"  He turned on
+his heel curtly and mounted the platform, taking up the baton.
+
+"Now," he cried, "The D again--all together!  Pia--no!"
+
+Kaya stole across the stage swiftly on tiptoe, threading her way
+through the scenery that was standing in rows, one behind the other, in
+readiness for the performance that night, and disappeared into the
+wings.  It was dusty there and deserted.  An occasional stage-hand
+hurried by in the distance bent on some errand, and from the back came
+the sound of hammering.  The chorus was singing forte now, and the
+sound filled the uttermost corner, drowning the noise of the hammer.
+Kaya stood still for a moment, clinching her hands:  "My God," she
+said, "I have tried the last and it has failed!  The end of the week!"
+she laughed to herself bitterly.  "I know what that means.  Helmanoff
+used to get rid of new pupils that way: 'You will hear,' he would say;
+but they never heard."
+
+She took a coin out of her dress and looked at it.  "The gypsies' wages
+are gone," she said, "Only this left to pay for my roof and my bed!"
+She laughed again and glanced about her stealthily as if fearful of
+being seen, or tracked.  Then she began to breathe quickly:
+
+"_Without weakness_," she said, "_without hesitation, or mercy, by mine
+own hands if needs be_.  I have done it to another: I will do it
+again--to myself.  Atone, atone--wipe out the stain!  A life for a
+life!  That is right."  She swayed and caught one of the scenes for
+support.  "That is--just!  God, how my throat burns, and my head, it is
+dizzy--and my eyes have gone blind!  Ah, it is passing--passing!  Now I
+can see.  I can--walk!"
+
+She clung to the scenery for another second, and then pushed it away
+and moved to the door, staggering a little like one who is drugged.
+
+
+It was evening.  The rain had ceased, and the moon rose full and pale
+with a halo about it.  In the distance clouds were gathering, and the
+waters under the mill were speckled with light.
+
+Kaya sat by the window, leaning on the sill with her arms and gazing
+down at the wheel: "It is deep there," she said, "A moment of falling
+through the air--a splash, and it will be over.  I am not--afraid."
+
+She shuddered a little, and her eyes were fixed on the flashes of
+silver as if fascinated.  She could not tear them away.  "How black it
+is under the wheel!" she murmured, "If I fell on the spokes--"  Then
+she shuddered again.
+
+"Perhaps I shall not die," she said, "Perhaps I shall live and be
+crippled, with my body broken.  Oh, God--to live like that!  I must--I
+must aim for the pool beyond, where the water lies deep and the
+moonlight freckles the--surface."
+
+Then she dropped her head on her arms and the words came again: "I have
+tried my best, Velasco, but the heart is gone out of me.  Don't be
+angry and call me a coward.  I tried--but I am weak now and I am
+afraid.  My voice is gone, and there is so little for a woman to do.  I
+tried everything, Velasco, but my strength--is--failing.  If I could
+walk, I would go to you and say good-bye; but I don't know where you
+are.  They say you have gone and I don't know where."
+
+She leaned a little further forward on the sill, still hiding her eyes.
+"He won't know," she whispered under her breath, "He will never know.
+Velasco!  Velasco--good-bye."
+
+Her body lay across the sill now, and she opened her heavy lids and
+gazed downwards, half eagerly, half fearfully.  The water was dark and
+the moon-light on the surface glittered.  The wheel was below, huge and
+gaunt like a spectre; silent, with its spokes dipping into the pool.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+"Fräulein, Fräulein--open the door!  There is a gentleman here who
+would speak with you!--Fräulein!"
+
+The blows redoubled on the stout oak, growing louder and more
+persistent.  "Fräulein!  It is very strange, Herr Kapellmeister.  I saw
+her go in with my own eyes, some two hours back, and she has not come
+out, for I was below in the mill with my pipe and my beer, sitting in
+the very doorway itself, and no flutter of petticoats passed me, or I
+should have heard."
+
+The old miller rubbed his wizen cheeks and smoothed the wisps of hair
+on his chin, nervously as a young man does his mustache.
+
+"Na--!" said the Kapellmeister.  "It is late and she may be asleep.  I
+came after rehearsal and it must be nine, or past.  Knock louder!"
+
+The miller struck the oak again with his fist, calling out; and then
+they both listened.  "There is no light through the key-hole," said the
+miller, peeping, "only the moon-rays which lie on the floor, and when I
+hark with my hand to my ear, I hear no sound but the water splashing."
+
+The Kapellmeister paced the narrow corridor impatiently.
+"Donnerwetter!" he exclaimed, "The matter is important, or I shouldn't
+have come.  I must have an answer to-night.  Try the door, and if it is
+unlocked, open it and shout.  You have a voice like a saw; it would
+raise the dead."
+
+The miller put his hand to the latch and it yielded: "Fräulein--!"  The
+garret was in shadow, and across the floor lay the moonbeams
+glittering; the casement was open, and the geraniums were outlined dark
+against the sky, their colour dimmed.
+
+"There is something in the window!" said the miller, peering; and the
+door opened wider.  "There is something black across the sill; it is
+lying over the geraniums and crushing them, and it looks like a woman!
+Jesus--Maria!"
+
+He took a step forward, staring: "It is the Fräulein, and she is--"
+
+"Get out of the way, you fool!" cried the Kapellmeister sharply, and he
+pushed the man back and strode forward: "The child has fainted!  She
+lies here with her head on her arms, and her cheek is white as the moon
+itself."
+
+He lifted her gently and put his arm under her shoulders, supporting
+her: "Get some Kirsch at once," he cried to the miller, "Stop gaping,
+man!  She's not dead I tell you--her heart flutters and the pulse in
+her wrist is throbbing!"  He slipped his hand in his pocket, and tossed
+the miller a gulden.  "Now run," he said, "run as if the devil were
+after you.  The Rathskeller is only a square away!  Brandy and
+food--food, do you hear?"
+
+The old man caught the gulden greedily between his fingers, and
+examined it for a moment, weighing it.  "I will go," he mumbled,
+"certainly I will go.  Kirsch--you say, sir, and bread perhaps?"
+
+"Be off, you fool!"
+
+The Kapellmeister watched the door grimly as it shut behind the miller,
+and then he glanced about the garret.  "Poor," he said, "Humph!  A
+place for a beggar!"  His eyes roved from the pallet in the corner to
+the pitcher and the basin, the clothes on the pegs, the cobwebs
+hanging, the geraniums crushed on the sill.
+
+Then he lifted the girl's head and held it between his hands, looking
+down at her face, supporting her in his arms.  The lashes lay heavy on
+her cheeks and the tendrils of hair, curly and golden, lay on her neck
+and her forehead.  Her throat was bare; it was white and full.  The
+Kapellmeister held her gently and a film came over his eyes as he gazed:
+
+"How young she is!" he murmured, "like some beautiful boy.  Her chin is
+firm--there is will power there.  Her brows are intelligent; her whole
+personality is one of feeling and temperament.  It is a face in a
+thousand.  What is her name, her history?  How has she suffered?  Why
+is she alone?  There are lines of pain about the mouth--the eyes!"
+
+He raised her suddenly in his arms and started to his feet; and as he
+did so, she opened her lids slowly and gazed at him.  "Velasco--" she
+murmured.
+
+Her voice was low and feeble, and the Kapellmeister bent his head
+lower: "What is it, child?" he said, "I can't hear you.  In a moment
+you will have some brandy in your throat and that will rouse you.  I
+will carry you now to that pallet over yonder, a poor place, no doubt,
+and hard as a board."
+
+He strode across the floor and laid the girl gently on the bed,
+smoothing the pillow, and covering her lightly with the blanket.  Kaya
+opened her eyes again, and put out her hands as if seeking someone.
+
+"I was falling," she said, "Why did you bring me back?"
+
+The Kapellmeister sat down by the edge of the bed and began to whistle
+softly; he whistled a theme once, and then he repeated it a semi-tone
+higher.  "I suspected as much," he said, "Was it because you had no
+money?"
+
+Kaya turned her face away.
+
+"Were you starving?--Tschut!  You needn't answer.  Your eyes show it.
+I might have seen for myself this morning, if I had not been in a
+temper with the chorus, and my mind absorbed in other matters.  Be
+still now, here is the miller--the dotard!"
+
+The Kapellmeister went over to the door, and took from the old man a
+small flask and a newspaper wrapping some rolls.  "So," he said grimly,
+"Now go, and keep the rest of the gulden for yourself.  No thanks!
+Pischt--be off!  Go back to your doorway and finish your beer, do you
+hear me?  I will look after the Fräulein; she is conscious now, and I
+have business with her."  He motioned the old man back from the door
+and closed it behind him; then he returned to the pallet.  "I'm not
+much of a nurse," he said, "You will have to put up with some
+awkwardness, child; but there--raise your head a little, so--and lean
+on my shoulder!  Now drink!"
+
+Kaya swallowed a few drops of the brandy.  "That is enough," she said
+faintly.
+
+"No.--Drink!"
+
+He held the glass to her lips, and she obeyed him, for his hands were
+strong and his eyes compelled her.  Then he broke the roll, and dipped
+it into the brandy, and fed her piece by piece.  When she tried to
+resist him, he said "Eat, child--eat!  Do as I tell you--eat!" and held
+it to her mouth until she yielded.
+
+She thought of Velasco and how he had fed her in the studio, and the
+pulse in her wrist beat quicker.  When she had finished the roll, he
+put down the glass and the newspaper, and she felt his eyes searching
+hers, keen and sharp, two daggers, as if they would pierce through her
+secret.
+
+"Don't speak," he said curtly, "Listen to me and answer my questions:
+Why were you discouraged?  I told you this morning you would hear from
+me; why didn't you wait?"
+
+The tears rose slowly into Kaya's eyes, and she hid her face in the
+pillow.
+
+"You didn't believe me," said the Kapellmeister, "but you see I was
+better than my word--I have come myself.  Why do you suppose I have
+come?"
+
+She lay silent.
+
+"If I hadn't come," he said grimly, "You would be lying in that pool
+yonder, by now, broken to pieces against the wheel; and I should have
+sought for my bird in vain."  He saw how the pillow rose and fell with
+her breath, and how she listened.
+
+"I wanted a bird for my Siegfried on Saturday," he went on, "Some one
+to sit far aloft in the flies and sing, as you sang this morning, high
+and pure, in the middle of the tone.  Helmanoff has trained you well,
+child, you take the notes as if nature herself had been your teacher.
+Neumann is gone; she screeches like an owl!  Elle a son congé!"  He
+continued to look at the pillow and the gold curls spread across it.
+
+"Will you come and be my bird, child?  I suppose you can't act as yet;
+but up in the flies you will be hidden, and only your prototype will
+flutter across the stage on its wires.  When I heard you this morning,
+I said to myself: 'Ha--my bird at last!  Siegfried's bird!'"
+
+He laughed softly, and bent over and stroked the curls: "I came
+to-night because the Neumann went off in a huff.  She made a scene at
+rehearsal, or rather I did.  I told her to go and darn stockings for a
+living, and she seemed to resent it!"  He paused for a moment.
+"Saturday is only day after to-morrow--and we have no bird!"
+
+The girl lay motionless, and the Kapellmeister went on stroking her
+curls.  "If you sing, you will be paid, you know!" he said, "and then
+you need not try to kill the poor bird for lack of a crumb.  Why didn't
+you tell me this morning, little one?"
+
+Kaya raised her head feebly and gazed at him: "My voice is gone!" she
+said, "My voice is--gone!"
+
+"Bah!" said the Kapellmeister, "With a throat like that!  It is only
+beginning to come.  The Lehmann's voice was as yours in her youth,
+light at first and colorature; and it grew!  Mein Gott, how it grew and
+deepened, and swelled, and soared!--Get strong, child, and your voice
+will ripen like fruit in the sun."
+
+He stooped over the pillow and looked into her eyes: "Come, child," he
+said, "Will you be my bird?  Promise me!  You won't think of that
+again--I can trust you?  If I leave you now--"
+
+Kaya put out her hands and clung to him suddenly, clasping his arm with
+her fingers.  "I won't," she said, "I will live, and study, and do my
+best--and some day you think I shall be a singer?  Oh, tell me truly!
+That is just what Helmanoff said, but when I asked them to hear me--I
+went to so many, so many!--they were always engaged, or--"  She caught
+her breath a little, stumbling over the words: "You think so--truly?"
+
+"I think so truly," said the Kapellmeister, "You must come to see me at
+the Opera-House to-morrow and rehearse your part, and I will teach you.
+You shall have your honorarium to-night in advance; and you must eat
+and grow strong."
+
+"I will," said Kaya.
+
+There was a new resolve in her tone, fresh hope, and she put her hand
+to her throat instinctively, as if to imprison the voice inside and
+keep it from escaping.
+
+"Has the miller gone?" she asked.
+
+"Yes," said Ritter, "He is gone and the door is closed; we are alone."
+
+"Then put your head lower," whispered the girl, "and I will tell you.
+Perhaps, when you--know!"
+
+"Go on," said the Kapellmeister, "I am here, child, close to you, and
+no one shall hurt you.  Don't tremble."
+
+"Do you see my hands?" said the girl, "Look at them.  They are stained
+with blood--stained with--  Ah, you draw away!"
+
+"Go on," said Ritter, "You drew away yourself, child.  What do you
+mean?  What could you do with a hand like that, a rose leaf?  Ha!"  He
+laughed and clasped it with his own to give her courage: "Go on."
+
+"You are not Russian," said the girl, "so you can't understand.  When
+one is not Russian--to be an anarchist, to kill--that is terrible,
+unpardonable!  But with us--My father is Mezkarpin," she whispered,
+"You have heard of him--yes?  The great General, the friend of the
+Tsar!  And I am the Countess Kaya, his--his daughter!"
+
+Her voice broke, and she was silent for a moment, leaning against the
+pillow.  Then she went on:
+
+"There is a society," she whispered, "in St. Petersburg.  It is called
+'The Black Cross'; and whosoever is a member of that order must obey
+the will of the order; and when they pass judgment, the sentence must
+be fulfilled.  They are just and fair.  When a man, an official, has
+sinned only once, they pass him by; but when he has committed crime
+after crime, they take up his case and deliberate together, and he is
+judged and condemned.  Sometimes it is the sentence of death, and
+then--" she hesitated, "and then we draw lots.  The lot fell to--me."
+
+She shut her eyes, and as the Kapellmeister watched her face, he saw
+that it was convulsed in agony, and the boyish look was gone.
+
+"He was warned," she whispered, "three times he was warned, according
+to rule, and I--I killed him."  The lines deepened in her face, and she
+half rose, leaning on her elbow, staring straight ahead of her as
+though at a vision, her lips moving:
+
+"_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself an instrument
+in the service of Justice and Retribution.  On whomsoever the choice of
+Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of death shall be fulfilled, by
+mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy;
+and if by any untoward chance this hand should fall, I swear--I swear,
+before the third night shall have passed, to die instead--to
+die--instead._"
+
+She struggled up on the bed, kneeling.
+
+"I killed him!" she cried in a whisper, "I killed him!  I see him lying
+on the floor there--on his face!  There--there!  Look!  With his arms
+outstretched--and the blood in a pool!"
+
+She was leaning forward over the edge of the bed, staring with her eyes
+dilated, pointing into the shadows and shuddering:
+
+"Don't you see him--there?"
+
+The Kapellmeister was white and his hands shook.  He took her strongly
+by the shoulders.  "Lie down," he said, "You are dreaming.  There is
+nothing there.  Look me in the eyes!  I tell you there is nothing
+there, and your hands are not stained.  Lie down."
+
+Kaya gazed at him for a moment in bewilderment: "Where am I?" she said,
+passing her hand over her eyes.  "Who are you?  I thought you were--
+Why no, I must have been dreaming as you say."
+
+"The hunger has made you delirious," said the Kapellmeister: "Look me
+in the eyes as I tell you, and I will smooth away those lines from your
+forehead.  Sleep now--sleep!"
+
+The girl sank reluctantly back on the pillows and the Kapellmeister sat
+beside her, his gaze fixed on hers with a strained attention,
+unblinking.  He was passing his hand over her forehead slowly and
+lightly, scarcely touching her: "Sleep--" he said, "Sleep."
+
+Her lids wavered and drooped slowly, and she sighed and stirred against
+the pillows, turning on her side.
+
+"Sleep--" he said.
+
+The garret was still, and only the moonbeams danced on the floor.  The
+doves in the eaves slept with their heads tucked under their wings, and
+the spiders were motionless in the midst of the webs; only the water
+was splashing below.
+
+The Kapellmeister watched the girl on the pallet.  He sat leaning back
+with his arms folded, his head in the shadow, and his face was grim.
+"She will sleep now," he said to himself, "sleep until I wake her.  She
+is young and strong, and there is no harm done; but she has had some
+fearful shock, and it has shaken her like a slender birch struck by a
+storm.  I will send my old Marta, and she will look after her--poor
+little bird!"
+
+Kaya lay on her side with her face half turned to the pillow; her cheek
+was flushed and her breath came gently through the arch of her lips.
+Her curls were like a halo about her, and her right hand lay on the
+blanket limp, small and white with the fingers relaxed.
+
+"I am getting to be an old man," said the Kapellmeister to himself,
+"and my heart is seared; but if I had a daughter, and she looked like
+that--I would throw over the Tsar and all his kingdom.  The great
+Juggernaut of Autocracy has gone over her, and her wings are bruised.
+It is only her voice that can save her now."
+
+He rose to his feet slowly, and in the dim light of the moon his hair
+was silvered, and he seemed weary and worn.  He stood by the pallet,
+looking down at the slim, still figure for a moment; and his hand stole
+out and touched a strand of her hair.  Then he covered her gently.
+"Sleep," he said, "Sleep!"  And he turned and went out, closing the
+door.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+"Is it only a week that I have been ill, Marta?  It seems like a month."
+
+"A week and a day, Fräulein; but you are better now, and to-morrow, the
+Doctor says you shall go out on the promenade and smell of the rose
+buds."
+
+Kaya was half lying, half seated on the pallet, with her hands clasped
+behind her head; she was dressed in a blue gown, worn and shabby but
+spotlessly neat, and her throat and her arms were bare.  "But how soon
+can I sing, Marta?  Did he say when?  Did you hear him?"
+
+The old nurse sat by the bed-side, knitting and counting her stitches
+aloud to herself from time to time.
+
+"One--two--four--seven!" she mumbled, "Sing, Fräulein?  Ah, who can
+tell!  You are weak yet."
+
+"No," said Kaya, "I am strong; see my arms.  I can stand up quite well
+and walk about the room with the help of your shoulder; you know I can,
+Marta."
+
+The old woman gave her a glance over her spectacles: "Seven--ten!" she
+repeated, "If it were your spirit, Fräulein, you would be Samson
+himself; but your body--"  She shook her head: "Na, when the master
+comes, ask him yourself.  It is he who has talked with the Doctor, not
+I."
+
+"He is coming now," said Kaya.  "I hear his step on the stairs, quick
+and firm like his beat.  Don't you hear it, Marta?--Now he has stopped
+and is talking with the miller."  She leaned back on the pillows and
+her eyes watched the door.
+
+"Eh, Fräulein!  Nein, I hear nothing!  What an ear you have--keen as a
+doe's when the wind is towards her!  At home, in the forest, where the
+deer run wild and they come in the dawn to the Schneide to
+graze--whischt!  The crackle of a leaf and they are off flying, with
+their muzzles high and their eyes wild.  Na!  I hear nothing but the
+wheel below grinding and squeaking, and the splash of the water."
+
+"He is coming up the stairs," cried Kaya, "Open the door for him,
+Marta, and let the Kapellmeister in."
+
+The old woman rolled up her knitting slowly: "It was just at the turn
+of the chain," she grumbled, "and I have lost a stitch in the counting.
+The master can come in by himself."
+
+Kaya gave a gleeful laugh like a child, and slipped her feet to the
+floor: "Oh, you cross Marta, you dear humbug!" she cried, "As if you
+wouldn't let the master walk over you and never complain!  Go on with
+that wonderful muffler of his, and I will let him in myself.  No, don't
+touch me!  Let me go alone and surprise him."
+
+She steadied herself with her hand to the bed-post, then caught at the
+chair: "Don't touch me--Marta!  I am quite strong--now, and able
+to--walk!"
+
+A knock came on the door, and she made a little run forward and opened
+it, clinging to the handle.
+
+"Du himmlische Güte!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "If the bird isn't
+trying its wings!  Behüte, child!"  He put a strong arm about her,
+looking down at her sternly and shaking his head: "Do you call this
+obedience?" he said grimly, "I thought I told you not to leave that
+couch alone--eh?"
+
+"Don't scold me," said Kaya, "I feel so well to-day, and there is
+something leaping in my throat.  Herr Kapellmeister--it is begging to
+come out; let me try to sing, won't you?" She clung to his arm and her
+eyes plead with him: "Don't scold me.  You have put 'Siegfried' off
+twice now because you had no bird.  Let me try to-day."
+
+The Kapellmeister frowned.  Her form was like a lily swaying against
+the trunk of an oak.
+
+"Tschut--" he said, "Bewahre!  Marta, go down and bring up her soup.
+When your cheeks are red, child, and the shadows are gone from under
+your eyes, then we will see."
+
+Kaya pushed away his arm gently, and there was a firmness about her
+chin as of a purpose new-born.  "You have paid for my lodging and my
+food, Herr Kapellmeister," she said proudly, "You have sent me your own
+servant, and she has been to me like a foster mother.  You have cared
+for me, and the Doctor and the medicines are all at your cost."  She
+steadied herself, still rejecting his hand, "And I--" she said, "I have
+earned nothing; I have been like a beggar.  If you will not let me
+sing, Herr Kapellmeister, then--"
+
+He looked at her for a moment in a wounded way and his brow darkened:
+"Well--?" he said.
+
+"Then you must take away your servant and the Doctor, and--and your
+kindness," said Kaya bravely, "and let me starve again."
+
+"You are proud--eh?  You remember that you are a Countess?"  The
+Kapellmeister laughed harshly.
+
+"I am not a Countess any more," said Kaya, "but I am proud.  Will you
+let me sing?"
+
+"When you are strong again and your voice has come back," he returned
+dryly, "you can sing, and not before.  As for paying your debts--
+There is time enough for that.  Now will you have the goodness to
+return to the couch, Fräulein, or do you prefer to faint on the floor?"
+
+Kaya glanced at the stern face above her, and her lip quivered: "You
+are angry," she said, "I have hurt you.  I didn't mean to hurt you."
+
+"The Doctor will be in presently," continued Ritter coldly, "I daresay
+he can restore you, if you faint, better than I.  Perhaps you will obey
+his orders as you reject mine."  There was something brutal in the tone
+of his voice that stung the girl like a lash.  She turned and tottered
+back to the couch, the Kapellmeister following, his arms half extended
+as if to catch her if she fell; but she did not fall.  He was still
+frowning, and he seemed moody, distraught.  "Shall I cover you?" he
+said.
+
+Kaya put out her hand timidly and touched his: "You have been so kind
+to me," she whispered, "Every day you have come, and when I was
+delirious I heard your voice; and Marta told me afterwards how you sat
+by the bed and quieted me, and put me to sleep.--Don't be angry."  All
+of a sudden she stooped and put her lips to his sleeve.
+
+He snatched his hand away roughly.  "You have nothing to be grateful
+for," he cried, "Pah!  If a man picks up a bird with a broken wing and
+nurses it to life again for the sake of its voice, is that cause for
+gratitude?  I do it for my own ends, child.  Tschut!"  He turned his
+back on her and went over to the window.  "If you want to know when you
+can sing, ask the Doctor.  If he says you may--"
+
+"You are still angry," said Kaya, "Don't be angry.  If you don't want
+me to sing, I will lie here as you tell me and--try to get stronger."
+She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, "Yes--I will!"
+
+Ritter began to strum on the window-panes with his strong fingers: "The
+Doctor is here," he said, "ask him.  I don't want you breaking down and
+spoiling the opera, that is all.  The rest is nothing to me.  Come in!"
+There was a certain savageness in his tone, and he went on strumming
+the motive on the panes.  "Come in, Doctor."
+
+The door opened and a young man came forward.  He was short of stature,
+and slight, with spectacles, and he stooped as if from much bending
+over folios.
+
+"My patient is up?" he said.
+
+"Walking about the room!" interrupted the Kapellmeister curtly.
+
+The Doctor sat down by the pallet and took the girl's wrist between his
+fingers: "Why does it throb like this?" he said, "What is troubling
+you?"
+
+"I want to sing," persisted Kaya defiantly, "If I sit in the flies with
+cushions behind me, and only a small, small part--couldn't I do it,
+Doctor?"
+
+The young man glanced at the Kapellmeister's rugged shoulders, and
+shrugged his own: "Why should it hurt you?" he said, "You have a throat
+like a tunnel, and a sounding board like the arch of a bridge.  Your
+voice should come tumbling through it like a stream, without effort.
+Don't tire yourself and let the part be short; it may do you good."
+
+Kaya's eyes began to glisten and sparkle: "It is only the bird's part!"
+she cried, "and I am hidden in the flies, so no one can see me.  Ah--I
+am happy!  I am well, Doctor--you have made me well!"
+
+Presently the old woman brought in the soup and the Doctor rose: "Will
+you come with me, Herr Kapellmeister?" he said, "We can smoke below in
+the mill, while the Fräulein eats.  I have still a few minutes."
+
+Then the Kapellmeister left the window, and the two men went out
+together.
+
+"Marta!" cried the girl, "I can sing!  Did you hear him say it?  Give
+me the soup quickly, while it is hot.  I feel so strong--so well!"
+
+She began taking the soup with one hand, and rubbing her cheek with the
+other: "Now, isn't it red, Marta?  Look--tell me!  Nurse, while you
+knit, tell me--did you see how angry he was, and how he went out
+without a word?  It is he himself who asked me to sing, so why should
+he be angry now?"
+
+The old woman clicked her knitting needles: "How do I know!" she said,
+"He lives alone so much, and he is crusty and crabbed, they say.  I
+nursed him when he was a child, just as I nurse you now.  He has a
+temper--Jesus-Maria--the master!  But his heart is of gold.  His
+wife--" she hesitated, "She was a singer, and she ran away and left
+him.  They say she ran away with the famous tenor, Brondi, who used to
+sing Tristan.  Since then the master has been soured-like!"
+
+"That is strange," said Kaya dreamily, "to run away from some one you
+love, when you can be with him night and day and never leave him!
+Sometimes there is a curse, and you are torn by your love, whether to
+go or stay.  But if you love him enough, you go--and that is the best
+love--to save him from the curse and suffer yourself alone.  Perhaps
+there was a curse."
+
+"What are you saying?" cried the old woman, "When you were delirious,
+it was always a curse you raved of, and stains on your hands.  Mein
+Gott!  My blood ran cold just to hear you, and the Kapellmeister used
+to come--"
+
+Kaya turned white: "He came?" she said, "and he heard me?  What did I
+say, Marta, tell me!  Tell me quickly!"  She caught the old woman's
+hands and wrung them between her own.
+
+"Jesus-Maria!  My knitting!--What you said, Fräulein?  How do I
+remember!  Stuff and nonsense mostly!  You were crazy with fever, and
+your eyes used to shine so, it made me afraid.  Then the Kapellmeister
+would come and put you to sleep with his eyes.--Let go of my hands,
+Fräulein, you are crushing the wool!  Is it the fever come back?--  Oh
+Je!"
+
+"No," said Kaya, "No.  You don't remember, Marta, whether I said any
+name--any particular name?  I didn't--did I?"
+
+The nurse pondered for a moment, then she went on knitting: "I can't
+remember," she said, "There was something you used to repeat, over and
+over, a single word--it might have been a name.  Won't you finish your
+soup, Fräulein?"
+
+"No," said Kaya, "I am tired.  Will you go down, Marta, and ask the
+Kapellmeister if he will come for a moment?  I have something to ask
+him."
+
+The nurse rose:  "They are smoking still," she said, "Yes, I smell
+their cigars!  If you have finished the soup, I will take the tray.
+Jesus-Maria!  You are flushed, Fräulein, and before you were so white!
+You are sure it is not the fever come back?"
+
+"Feel my hands," said Kaya, "Is that fever?"  Then she shut her eyes.
+She heard clumsy footsteps descending the stairs, and then a pause; and
+after a moment or two steps coming back, but they were firm and quick,
+and her heart kept time to them.
+
+"What did I say in my ravings?" she cried to herself, "What did he
+hear?"
+
+"Nun?" said the Kapellmeister.
+
+"I see now what hurt you," said Kaya, without raising her eyes, "You
+thought I wanted to repay your kindness that can never be repaid; that
+I was narrow and little, and was too proud to take from your hands what
+you gave me.  Forgive me."
+
+The Kapellmeister crossed the room and sat down on the chair that the
+nurse had left.  He said nothing, and Kaya felt through her closed lids
+that he was looking at her.  "How shall I ask him?" she was saying to
+herself, "How shall I put it into words when perhaps he understood
+nothing after all?"
+
+"If you think your voice is there," said the Kapellmeister, "fresh, and
+not too strained for the high notes, why you can try it now.  If it
+goes all right, I daresay we could announce 'Siegfried' for the end of
+the week."
+
+"Will you give me the note?" said Kaya, "Is it F#, or G, I forget?"
+
+"I will hum you the preceding bars where Siegfried first hears the
+bird."  Ritter began softly, half speaking, half singing the words in
+his deep voice, taking the tenor notes falsetto.  "Now--on the F#.  The
+bird must be heard far away in the branches, and you must move your
+head so--as it flutters from leaf to leaf."
+
+Kaya lifted herself from the pillows until she sat upright, supporting
+herself with one hand.  She began to sing, and then she stopped and
+gave a cry.  "It is there!" she said pitifully, "I feel it, but it
+won't come!--I can't make it come!  It is as if there were a gate in my
+throat and it was barred!"
+
+Tears sprang to her eyes.  She opened her lips farther, but the sound
+that came was strange and muffled; and she listened to it as if it were
+some changeling given to her by a mischievous demon in exchange for her
+own.
+
+"That isn't my voice," she said, "You know as well as I--it never
+sounded like that before!  What is it?  Tell me--"
+
+The Kapellmeister laughed a little, mockingly: "I told you, child," he
+said, "I warned you.  Don't look like that!  When you are stronger, it
+will come with a burst, and be bigger and fresher than ever before.
+Siegfried must wait for his bird, that is all."
+
+Kaya clasped her throat with both hands as if to tear away the
+obstruction: "I will sing--I will!" she cried, "It is there--I feel it!
+Why won't it come out?"  She gave a little moan, and threw herself back
+on the pillows.
+
+The Kapellmeister stooped suddenly; a look half fierce, half pitying
+came in his face.  He bent over her until his eyes were close to hers,
+and he forced her to look at him:
+
+"What is that word you say?  When you were raving, you repeated it
+again and again: 'Velasco--Velasco.'  There is a violinist by that
+name, a musician."
+
+"A--musician!" stammered Kaya.  She was staring at him with eyes
+wide-open and frightened.
+
+"His name is Velasco."
+
+"Ve--las--co?"
+
+The syllables came through her lips like a breath.  "No--no!" she cried
+suddenly, hoarsely, "I don't know him!  I--I never saw him!"
+
+She struggled with the lie bravely, turning white to the lips and
+gazing.  "It was some one I knew in Russia; some one I--I loved."  She
+sat up suddenly and wrung her hands together: "You don't believe me?"
+
+"No," said the Kapellmeister, "You can't lie with eyes like that."
+
+Kaya gazed at him desperately: "Don't tell him," she breathed,
+"Ah--don't let him know--I implore you!"
+
+Ritter gave a sharp exclamation and caught the little figure in his
+arms.  "She has fainted!" he cried, "Potztausend, what a brute I was!"
+He laid her back on the pillow and stood staring down at her, breathing
+heavily and clenching his hands.
+
+"If I were Velasco!" he muttered, "Ah Gott--I am mad!  Marta--Marta!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+The day was very warm and sultry, and the visitors, who flocked to
+Ehrestadt for the opera season, fanned themselves resignedly as they
+sat in the shaded gardens, drinking beer and liqueurs, and gossiping
+about the singers.  The performance of 'Siegfried' was to be given that
+night for the second time, and they discussed it together.
+
+"The tenor--ah, what a voice he had, and what acting, but
+Brünnhilde--bah!"  They shook their heads.  "The Schultz was growing
+old, and her voice was thin in the upper register; it struck against
+the roof of her mouth when she forced it, and sounded like tin.  In the
+love-scene, when Brünnhilde wakes from her sleep--Tschut!  What a pity
+a singer should ever grow old; and a still greater pity--a Jammerschade
+that she should go on singing!"
+
+"The Conductor was in despair, and so were the Directors; but the
+contract was signed, it was too late.  Ach bewahre, poor Ritter!  He
+was in such a pique," they said, "der Arme!  The bird--that was poor
+too, shrill and cheap!  Die Neumann, who was she?  Someone out of the
+chorus perhaps.  But the Mime was splendid."
+
+And then they went back to the great Siegfried again and praised
+him--"Perron!  He was worth the rest of the performance together, he
+and the orchestra; but when he had sung it with the Lehmann last year,
+ach--that was a different matter.  He had gone through the part like a
+Siegfried inspired, and she--ah divine!  There was no Brünnhilde to
+compare with her now.  What a night it had been!  Do you recall it?"
+they said--"Do you remember it?"  And then the opera-goers closed their
+eyes ecstatically.
+
+"The season before was better, far better!--Tschut!"  And then they
+went on drinking their beer and liqueurs, and fanning themselves
+resignedly.  "If the heat did not break before night-fall there would
+be a thunder-storm."  The clouds were gathering far in the West, and
+the insects were humming.  The air was heavy with the scent of
+blossoms; and the waitresses ran to and fro, dressed in Tyrolese
+costume; the prettier they were the more they ran.
+
+"One beer!--Three liqueurs!"  "Sogleich, meine Herren!"  The garden was
+shady, and the glasses clinked; the tongues wagged.
+
+
+"You are not afraid; you are comfortable, child, swung up there in the
+tree-tops?"
+
+Kaya's eyes shone like two stars down from the green.  "My heart
+beats," she said, "but it is only stage fright; it will pass.  Is the
+House full?"
+
+"Packed to the roof!"
+
+"I am only a bird," said Kaya softly, "They won't think of me.  It is
+Siegfried they have come to hear, and Brünnhilde.  How glorious to be a
+Brünnhilde!"
+
+The Kapellmeister took out his watch: "I must go," he said, "Good-bye,
+little one; remember what I told you, and let your voice come out
+without effort; not too loud, or too soft!  When your part is over, one
+of the stage-hands will let you down again."
+
+Kaya nodded, swinging herself childishly.  "It is sweet to be a bird,"
+she said, "I think I shall stay here always, and Siegfried will never
+find me."
+
+"No--he shall never find you!" said the Kapellmeister suddenly and
+sharply.  Their eyes met for a moment.  "Are you all right?" he
+repeated, "You are pale."
+
+Kaya shrank back into the leaves that were painted, and they trembled
+slightly as if a breeze had passed; and the great drop-curtain blew
+out, bulging.
+
+"Keep the windows shut," called the voice of the stage manager,
+"Quick--before the curtain goes up.  A storm is coming, and the
+draughts--oh Je!"  He went hurrying past.
+
+Ritter glanced at his watch again mechanically; then he crossed the
+stage to the left, and hurried down a small, winding stair-case to the
+pit, where the orchestra waited.  A sharp tap of the baton--a glance
+over his men--then the second Act began.
+
+
+Kaya sat very still under the leaves with the painted branches about
+her.  She was perched on a swing, high aloft in the flies; and when she
+looked up, she saw nothing but ropes, and machinery, and darkness; and
+when she looked down, there was Mime below her, crouched by a stone;
+the sun was rising, the shadows were breaking, and Siegfried lay
+stretched at the foot of the Linden.  He had long, light hair and fur
+about his shoulders, and he was big and splendid to look at in his
+youth and his wrath.  He was threatening Mime, and the dwarf was
+muttering and cursing.  Beyond was the pit with the orchestra, the
+footlights, the House.
+
+Kaya listened, and her thoughts went back to St. Petersburg and the
+class of Helmanoff.  She was singing to him, and when she had finished,
+he had taken her hands.  "If you were not a Countess," he said, "you
+could be a Lehmann in time, another Lehmann."  Kaya leaned her curls
+against the rope of the swing dreamily.  "How long ago that seems," she
+said to herself, "before--before I--"
+
+Then she thought of the weeks since her illness, and how her voice had
+come back suddenly, over night as it were, only bigger and fuller; and
+how she had worked and studied, day after day, rehearsing with Ritter.
+
+Her brow clouded a little as she remembered.  He had been severe, the
+Kapellmeister, caustic, even irritable.  How hard he was to satisfy!
+When she sang her best, he shrugged his shoulders; when she sang badly,
+he was furious.  Occasionally he was kind as to-day, but not
+often. . . .  Siegfried was alone now, carving his reed, trying to
+mimic the song of the wood birds. . . .  The Kapellmeister had said
+nothing of Lehmann; perhaps she had lost her voice after all.  Her
+thoughts rambled on as she waited for her cue. . . .
+
+Siegfried's horn was to his lips and he was blowing it; a splendid
+figure, eager, expectant. . . .  Kaya stretched her throat like a bird:
+"If it should be barred," she said to herself, "as it was before, and
+the orchestra began with the theme, and I couldn't sing!"  She trembled
+a little.
+
+So the first scene passed; and the second.
+
+
+The Dragon was on the stage now, and Siegfried was fighting him.  The
+hot breath poured from the great, red nostrils; the sword flashed.  The
+battle grew fiercer. . . .  Kaya leaned over, stooping in the swing,
+and gazing.  "Siegfried has wounded him," she whispered,--"in a moment
+the sword will have reached his heart. . . .  Ah, now--it has struck
+him--he is dying!  As soon as he is dead!  As soon as he is--dead."
+
+The orchestra was playing passionately, and she knew every note; the
+bird motive came nearer and nearer.  Already her prototype was being
+prepared in the flies, and the wires made ready.  She clung to the
+rope, swinging. . . .  Ah, how good the Kapellmeister had been to her;
+how good!  It was his very interest in her that had made him severe,
+she knew that.  She must sing her best, and not wound him by failure.
+
+The motive came nearer.
+
+Siegfried was standing just below her now.  She took a deep breath and
+her lips parted.  He was peering up at her, searching through the
+leaves, and the bird on its wire fluttered across the stage. . . .  She
+was singing.  The notes, high and pure, poured out of her throat.  The
+bird fluttered past.
+
+[Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"]
+
+She swayed, with her head leaning back against the ropes, and sang--and
+sang.  Her throat was like a tunnel and her voice was like a stream
+running through it, clear and glorious.  Siegfried looked up and
+started.  The orchestra played on.
+
+
+"Has the Fräulein gone home?"
+
+"No," said Marta, yawning, "She is in one of the dressing-rooms.  I
+begged her to come, but she wouldn't."
+
+The Kapellmeister laid his hand on her shoulder carelessly: "If you are
+sleepy," he said, "go back to the mill; I will bring her myself
+presently.  The House is dark now, and the people are going."  He gave
+a curt nod, dismissing the old woman, and strode on through the wings.
+
+One person after another stopped him: "Ha, Kapellmeister, where did
+that nightingale hail from?"
+
+"I snared it for you, Siegfried; were you satisfied?"
+
+"Ach, mein Gott!  I thought I was back on the Riviera, and it was
+moon-light.--  Snare me another Brünnhilde, can't you?"  The great
+tenor laughed and put his finger to his lips: "Singing with the Lehmann
+spoils one," he said, "Bah--!  It was frightful to-night!  She grows
+always worse.  Would the bird were a goddess instead."  He waved his
+hand: "Good-night!"
+
+"Good-night," said the Kapellmeister, hurrying on.
+
+"Ritter--hey!  Stop a moment!  What has come over the Neumann?"
+
+"Nothing, Jacobs--nothing!  She is dead."
+
+Mime straightened his back that was stiff from much crouching:
+"Ausgeworfen?"
+
+"Ja wohl."
+
+"Then who is the lark?"
+
+"An improvement you think--eh?"
+
+The singer laughed: "The way Perron jumped!  Did you see him?  With the
+first note he gaped open-mouthed into the branches, and came within an
+ace of dropping his sword.  I chuckled aloud in the wings.  Who is she,
+Kapellmeister?"
+
+"Good-night--good-night!" cried Ritter, "excuse me, but I am late and
+in a hurry.  This opera conducting is frightfully wearing; I am limp as
+a rag.  Good-night!" he ran on.
+
+The doors of the dressing-rooms stood open, and he peered into them,
+one after the other.  In some the electric light was still on, and the
+costumes were scattered about on the open trunks.  The principals were
+gone already, and most of the chorus; and the men of the orchestra went
+hurrying by like shadows, with their instruments under their arms.  In
+the House itself, behind the asbestos curtain, which was lowering
+slowly, came the sound of seats swinging back, and the voices of the
+ushers as they rushed to and fro.
+
+"Kaya!" called the Kapellmeister softly, "Where are you?"  He hurried
+from room to room.
+
+The dressing-room of Madame Schultz was on the second floor, up a
+short, winding stair-case, and the lights were turned low.  Ritter
+paused in the doorway.
+
+The prima-donna was standing before the pier-glass, still in costume;
+her soft, white robes trailed over the floor, and her red-blonde hair
+hung to her waist.  The helmet glittered on her head, and she held her
+spear aloft as if about to utter the Walküre cry.  The figure was
+superb, magnificent; a goddess at bay.  And as the Kapellmeister stared
+at her in astonishment, he saw that she was tense with emotion.
+
+"Madame," he stammered, "You!  You--still here?"
+
+Her face was to the glass, her back to the door; she wheeled about
+quickly and faced him: "Yes, I am here!" she cried, "Brünnhilde is
+here!  The House was cold to me to-night--they clapped Perron.  It was
+all Siegfried.  They would have hissed me if they had dared."  The
+spear shook in her trembling hand.
+
+"When my voice broke in the top notes, you could hear them whispering
+in the loggias; didn't you hear them?  'She is old,' they said, 'she
+can't sing any more, or act!  She has no business to be here.  Get us
+another Brünnhilde!'  And the stage hands looked at me pityingly.  I
+saw!  Do you think I am blind and deaf as well as old?  Look at me as I
+stand here!  I am Brünnhilde!"
+
+The form of the singer was rigid, drawn to its height; the head thrown
+back and the helmet glittering on her red-blonde hair.  Her eyes were
+proud and scornful.
+
+"Am I not--Brünnhilde?"
+
+"Yes--yes!" cried Ritter, drawing back in a dazed way: "You are
+magnificent, Madame.  If you had acted like that tonight, you would
+have had the House at your feet."
+
+The singer took a step forward.  "It is not I," she cried, "It is
+Brünnhilde herself!  Come, let her sing to you!  The scene is still
+there on the stage, the rocks and the fir-tree--and Brünnhilde's couch.
+The fire motive seethes in my brain, and the flames are springing.
+Come--and waken me!"
+
+She grasped his sleeve with her fingers, and drew him: "You are not the
+Kapellmeister!" she cried, "You are Siegfried, and you must sing the
+part in falsetto.  Come!"
+
+Ritter gave a quick glance about.  The stage hands were gone, and the
+singers.  The stage was in semi-darkness, half lighted, and the scene
+was unchanged.  He could see it from the top of the balustrade.  There
+was no one in the House behind, or in front, and the foot-lights were
+out; only the porter watched below, half asleep and waiting.  He was
+alone with a mad woman; Brünnhilde gone crazy and frantic with grief
+because she was old and her voice was gone.  She was dragging at his
+hand, and pulling him towards the stair-case.  He followed her dumbly.
+
+"Come--come!" she panted, "You think the Schultz has gone mad!  No--no!
+It is only her youth come back, and her voice is leaping in her throat.
+She must sing--must sing!  There is the couch.  See, I fling myself on
+it!  I am covered with the shield, and the spear lies beside me.  You
+have wakened me, Siegfried, with your kiss; and now I raise myself
+slowly.  I am dazed--I stare blindly about!  Hark, how the fire is
+leaping and crackling!"
+
+The singer was seated upright now on the couch, and Ritter was standing
+helpless beside her.  As she acted, the blood ran cold in his veins.
+It was true what she had said.  She was no longer the Schultz: she was
+Brünnhilde herself, the goddess, and the kiss of Siegfried was on her
+lips.
+
+She was singing now; she had sprung to her feet with the spear in her
+hand, and the music poured from her throat.  It was not the voice of
+Schultz; it was richer and fuller, and the tones were deep and strong,
+and pure and high; and it rang out and filled the empty stage like a
+clarion trumpet, silver-toned.  She held her hands high above her head,
+waving the spear; coming nearer to him and nearer.
+
+  "O Siegfried, Herrliche Hort der Welt!
+  Leben der Erde, lachender Held!"
+
+
+Her red-blonde hair shone in the light and the helmet glittered:
+"Siegfried!  Siegfried!"
+
+It was the Lehmann come back!  Ah, no--it was more than the Lehmann!
+Ritter gazed and listened, and his heart gave a leap.  It was
+Brünnhilde herself, the goddess come to life; and the stage was no
+longer there: it was night on the mountain-top; they were surrounded by
+fires crackling and leaping; the flash of flames curling, and light and
+smoke.  The violins were playing.
+
+Instinctively his fingers clutched the air as if grasping the baton.
+"Siegfried!"
+
+The cry came big and passionate as from the throat of a Walküre,
+without limit or strain.  The Kapellmeister staggered and covered his
+eyes.
+
+"Gott!" he cried, "Am I dreaming?  Where am I?  Madame--stop!  Are you
+the Schultz, or are you--?  I thought you were mad, stark mad; but it
+is I--I!  When I looked at you now, you were Brünnhilde alive--your
+voice is the voice of the goddess herself!"
+
+He sank down on the couch and covered his face with his hands.  The
+blood rushed to his ears and seethed there, and the music beat against
+his brain.  Then the faintness passed, and he looked up.
+
+Brünnhilde stood a little apart, still grasping the spear.  The light
+fell on her helmet, and it shone; her lips were arched as if the tones
+were still in her throat, dying away.  She was gazing at him and her
+breast was panting.  The light fell full on her face.
+
+"Ach--mein Gott!" he cried, "It is Kaya!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+"Yes, it is I," said Kaya.
+
+She put up both hands, lifting the helmet from her head, and the
+red-blonde hair fell back from her short, gold curls.  The spear
+dropped with a clang to the stage and lay extended between them,
+glittering.
+
+"My voice was there," she said softly, "in my throat, leaping and
+bounding, and the gate was unbarred."  She seemed half afraid, and drew
+back in the shadow.
+
+Ritter still sat on the edge of the couch, where Brünnhilde had lain,
+and where Siegfried had kissed her.  His face had a dazed look, and he
+passed his hand over his eyes several times, as if the dusk were too
+dim for his sight.
+
+"I thought you were the Schultz gone mad!" he murmured.  "Gott!  What
+an actress you are!"
+
+A laugh came to him out of the darkness.
+
+"You are no bird," said Ritter, "You are a Walküre born.  Take the
+helmet again and the spear.  As you stood in the shadow, gazing
+downward, you were like a young warrior watching his shield."  He
+sprang to his feet and came toward her, placing the spear in her hand,
+the helmet again on her head.
+
+"Sing," he said, "Let me hear it again.  Your voice is a marvel!  The
+timbre is silver and the tones are of bronze.  Let me look at your
+throat!  Gott--but the roof of your mouth is arched like a dome and the
+passage is as the nave of a cathedral, wide and deep!"
+
+His hand grasped her shoulder, trembling: "Did Helmanoff know you had a
+voice like that?" he cried, "Tell me, child, did he train you?  The
+part is most difficult to act and to sing.  Tell me--or am I dreaming
+still?"
+
+Kaya fingered the spear dreamily: "My voice is bigger and fuller," she
+said; "it came so all of a sudden, but he taught me the part, and he
+told me, some day, if I were not a Countess I could become the
+Brünnhilde."  Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp,
+springing forward and crouching:
+
+"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Brünnhilde is
+your child and she has sinned.  You have threatened her, and now she is
+pleading: 'Wotan--Father!'"  Her voice rose, and her form shook as
+though with sobs.  She crept closer, still crouching, and lay at his
+feet, and her voice was like something crying and wrestling.
+
+  "Hier bin ich Vater: Gebiete die Strafe . . .
+  Du verstösest mich?  Versteh' ich den Sinn?
+  Nimmst du mir alles was einst du gabst?"
+
+
+Her voice sobbed, dying away into a tone pure, soft, heart-breaking,
+like a breath; yet it penetrated and filled the stage, the wings, and
+came echoing back.
+
+  "Hier bin ich Vater; Gebiete die Strafe . . .
+  Du verstösest mich?"
+
+
+For a moment she lay as if exhausted; then she covered her head with
+her hands as if fearing and trembling: "Now curse me," she whispered,
+"Curse me!  I hear the flames now beginning to crackle!"
+
+The Kapellmeister put out his hand and took hers, and lifted her: "If
+the House were full," he said, "and you acted like that, they would go
+stark mad; they would shower bouquets at your feet and carry you on
+their shoulders.  The Lehmann was the great Brünnhilde, but you are
+greater, Kaya.  Your voice has the gift of tears.  When you let it out,
+one is thrilled and shaken, and there is no end to the glory and power;
+it encircles one as with a wreath of tones.  But when you lower it
+suddenly and breathe out the sound--child--little one, what have you
+suffered to sing like that?  You are young.  What must you have
+suffered!"
+
+He clasped her hands tenderly between his own, and stared down into her
+eyes.
+
+"Don't touch me," she said brokenly, "I told you--there is blood on
+them!  I am cursed like Brünnhilde.  The curse is in my voice and you
+hear it, and it is that that makes you tremble and shudder--just as I
+tremble and shudder--at night--when I dream, and I see the body beside
+me on the floor--and the red pool--widening.  Helmanoff used to tell me
+my voice was cold and pure like snow; there was no feeling, no warmth,
+no abandon.  You see--if I have learned it, it is not Helmanoff who has
+taught me--but suffering."
+
+Her eyes were like two fires burning, and she put her hand to her
+throat.  "To have the gift of tears you must have shed them," she
+whispered, looking at him strangely: "You must have--shed them."
+
+"Is it the curse alone," said the Kapellmeister, "that keeps you and
+Velasco apart, little one?  Forgive me!  Don't start like that!
+Don't--don't tremble."
+
+Kaya backed away from him, snatching away her hands.  Her lips were
+quivering and her eyes half closed.  "Ah--" she breathed, "You are
+cruel.  Take the spear and strike me, but don't prod a wound that is
+open and will not--heal!  Have you no wound of your own hidden that you
+must needs bare mine?"
+
+"It is love that has taught you," said the Kapellmeister, "You love
+him--Velasco!"
+
+She gave a low moan and flung her arms up, covering her face.
+
+The Kapellmeister stared at her for a moment.  The stage was dark, and
+only a bulb of light, here and there, gleamed in the distance.  Below,
+the watchman was pacing the corridor, waiting, and the smell of his
+pipe came up through the wings.  The scenery looked grim and ghostly;
+the couch of Brünnhilde lay bare.  Above were ropes and machinery
+dangling, and darkness.
+
+He clinched his teeth suddenly and a sound escaped him, half a cry,
+half a groan; but smothered, as though seized and choked back.  "Come,"
+he said.  He went to her roughly and took the helmet from her head, and
+the shield, and the spear; she standing there heedless with her arms
+across her face.  They fell to the floor with a crash, first one, then
+the other, and the sound was like a blow, repeating itself in loud
+echoes.
+
+"Go and take off your things," he said hurriedly, "It is
+midnight--past, and the watchman is waiting to lock the stage door.
+Rouse yourself--go!  I will wait for you here."
+
+He heard the sound of her footsteps crossing the stage, ascending the
+stair-case; and he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and
+backwards, in and out among the rocks and the trees.  His forehead was
+scarred with lines, and his shoulders were bent.  The look of the
+victorious General about him had changed into the look of one who has
+met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his strength and his
+might, and been beaten, with his forces slain and a bullet in his
+breast.
+
+His eyes were fierce and his face set, his feet stumbled; he was white
+as death and weary.  He heard her coming back and he walked on,
+backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding.
+
+"Have you your cloak?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"An umbrella?"
+
+"No."
+
+"It is raining.  Don't you hear it, and the thunder in the distance?
+The storm has broken.  Come, we will take a cab."  He strode across the
+stage and down the staircase; she following.  He nodded to the watchman:
+
+"Still rehearsing," he said shortly, "Sorry to keep you up.  Whistle,
+will you, for a Droschke?  Gott!  The rain is terrific; hear it!  Come."
+
+There was the sound of wheels, of horses' hoofs.
+
+He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke, and Kaya crept in.
+
+She was no longer the Brünnhilde; she was a little figure, slight and
+pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the
+cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes.
+
+Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door.  "Nonnen-Mühle!" he
+cried, "and drive fast.  We are chilled to the bone!  The storm grows
+worse; it is devilish late!"  He flung himself back in the opposite
+corner, and the Droschke rolled on.
+
+It was still in the carriage.  From outside came the sound of the rain
+falling, and the hoofs of the horses trotting.  Kaya shut her eyes.
+The rhythmical sound caught her senses.  She was in St. Petersburg
+again, and driving in the darkness through the night and the storm; and
+Velasco was beside her--Velasco!  They were driving to the church to
+be--married.
+
+"Don't do that again," cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, "I can't bear
+it."
+
+"W--what?"
+
+"You moaned."
+
+Kaya crept closer into the corner, and clasped the cloak to her breast
+and throat.
+
+"It is like seeing a bird with a shot in its breast--in torture," he
+said, "And when you sing, it is like a swan song.  Your soul is on your
+lips, crying out, imploring.--Kaya!"
+
+He bent over the shrinking form in the corner: "I was brutal to you; my
+heart was sore, seeing you suffer.  The words came out like a lash;
+they cut you.  I saw how they hurt you.  Little one--if I bare the
+wound to the air again, forgive me--forgive me!  No--don't shrink away.
+If you love him like that, my God--I know him!  He comes to my house!
+Only a few weeks ago he was there, and he's coming again; soon, I tell
+you, soon.  I swear I will bring him to you!  If he won't come, I will
+force him; with my hands I will drag him if he refuses."
+
+The girl gave a cry: "Drag him!" she cried, "Force him!  Ah, he'd fly
+at a word--he'd fly to me!"  She caught her breath: "Bózhe moi!" she
+said suddenly, and laughed: "What are you talking about, dear Master?
+Velasco--he's nothing to me!  A musician, you said--a violinist!  You
+forget I am Brünnhilde to-night.  We talked of a curse--not love.
+Siegfried is still behind the flames and cannot get past."
+
+She laughed again, a sound like a trill: "You forget, don't you?" she
+said, "I was acting a part!  It wasn't real; I was only
+playing--pretending.  How the Schultz cheated you!  Ah, dear
+Master--you thought she had lost her wits and her size all at once.
+You never noticed how she had shrunken; and that was because I stood on
+tip-toe, and held myself straight with the helmet.  If the light hadn't
+fallen full on my face, you would never have guessed!  I laughed to
+myself; how I laughed!  I--laughed!"
+
+"Child," said the Kapellmeister suddenly.  "You are sobbing!"
+
+"I am not--I am laughing, dear Master.  Look at me!  There is the mill
+across the promenade.  How gaunt the wheel looks, and strange, with its
+spokes dripping, and the rain lashing down!  And there is a light in my
+window--a candle, see?  Old Marta is waiting, and how she will scold.
+Tell me, Master--dear Master, before we get there, tell me--some day
+may I act Brünnhilde and sing, when the curtain is up, and the House is
+full, and Siegfried is there, and you at the baton--and the orchestra
+playing?  Tell me!"
+
+She drew closer to him, and the last words came out in a whisper,
+breathless and eager.  "Put those other thoughts out of your mind, dear
+Kapellmeister.  Ve--Velasco is only a name--nothing more!
+
+"If I can sing I will be happy; I promise you.  The sting of the curse
+will--pass.  You are silent and cold!" she cried, "You won't tell me,
+and we are almost there--at the mill!  Master!"
+
+The Kapellmeister started: "The mill?" he stammered, "What were you
+saying, Kaya?  How cold your hand is, little one!  Of course you shall
+sing.  You shall be our great Brünnhilde and the visitors will flock to
+Ehrestadt, and you will be famous and beloved."
+
+He hesitated:  "I can't see you, only your eyes gleaming, Kaya.  How
+bright they are, little one, like live coals!  Where did you get that
+name--'Master'?  Did Marta teach you?  My pupils say that, the chorus,
+the orchestra, and the singers; but you never used it before.  It is
+because I am old now and my hair is grey, and you are a child.  I must
+seem to you like your father, Kaya."
+
+"No," said the girl quickly, "not my father!  He was hard and cruel; he
+was a friend of the Tsar.  I--I never loved him."
+
+"Nor me," cried the Kapellmeister hoarsely, "Nor me!"
+
+The words sprang to his lips in spite of himself; they were low, and he
+thought she did not hear; but her ear was keen.  She bent forward
+taking his hand, and kissed it swiftly, holding it between her own.
+
+"Dear Kapellmeister!  Dear Master!" she cried, half laughing, half with
+a sob: "You know I love you.  When I was ill and alone, and desperate,
+and helpless, longing to die, you came to me.  You saved me and helped
+me; and I was nothing to you but a stranger.  You were father and
+mother to me; and now, you are my master, and teacher, and friend."
+She lifted his hand again to her lips and caressed it: "I love you,"
+she cried, "dear Master, I love you with all my heart!"
+
+Ritter stirred against the cushions; his hand lay limp in her clasp.
+"Yes, little one," he said, "Yes.  Your heart is like your voice,
+fathomless and pure.  The carriage has stopped now, and there is the
+candle, burning up yonder under the eaves.  Can you find your way
+alone, without help?  I am strangely weary."
+
+His voice was low, and the words came slowly, with an effort.  He
+passed his hand over his face:
+
+"Good-night--Brünnhild'!"
+
+He held her hands and drew her towards him: "Good-night, little one.
+There are shadows under your eyes, and your lip quivers; you are
+pale.--Good-night."  He held her for a moment in a strong grasp,
+staring down into her face; then she was gone and the door closed
+behind her.  His hands were empty, and the horses had turned, and were
+galloping back through the rain and the night.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+It was dusk, and the lights of the Rathskeller began to twinkle out one
+by one.  The Keller was long and rambling, divided into innumerable
+small alcoves and corners, partitioned by strange and antique carvings.
+
+The ceiling was low, with octagonal vaults like a cloister.  On the
+smoke-grimed walls, here and there, were mural paintings of knights in
+armour, and fat peasants drinking, dimmed and half obliterated.
+Beneath were legends and proverbs, printed in quaint, old-German
+characters; while across one end, like a frieze, ran a ledge carven
+with gargoyles, rude and misshapen.  On the ledge were beer mugs of
+every size and description, with queer tops and crooked handles.
+Above, suspended from the ceiling by chains, hung a huge Fass; and from
+the throats of the gargoyles, dragon and devil alike, dripped the beer,
+turned on by small taps hidden.
+
+In and out, among the tables, sped the waitresses in their Tyrolese
+costume with its picturesque head-dress; and beyond lay the garden,
+innumerable bulbs of light gleaming like fire-flies among the trees.
+
+"Bitte um zwei Münchener!"
+
+"Sogleich, meine Herren."
+
+"Ein Chartreuse und ein Pilsener!"
+
+"Jawohl!  Sofort!"
+
+And the waitresses sped, vying with one another, coquetting with their
+patrons, smiling gayly with sharp retorts; their eyes bright, their
+trays laden with foaming beer mugs.
+
+In one of the alcoves, far back in the shadow, sat two gentlemen.  The
+younger had removed his hat, and was pushing the hair impatiently back
+from his brows.  His eyes were dark and sleepy, half covered by the
+brows, weighed down by the lids.
+
+He was leaning on one elbow and responded languidly to his companion,
+half heeding, toying with his hands, and strumming on the table with
+his fingers, which were white, and supple, and full of magnetism.
+
+Beside him lay a violin.
+
+"You are nervous to-night, Velasco?"
+
+"I am always nervous."
+
+"What shall we eat and drink?"
+
+"Donnerwetter--what you please!  If I eat, I cannot play.  Bring me
+some of that Rhine wine, Fräulein, the white in the slanting bottles,
+and a plate of Pretzeln.  No beer--bewahre!"
+
+The Musician raised his hands with a shrug of his shoulders, and then
+sank back in his former listless attitude.
+
+"That is your Polish taste, Velasco.  Try a bit of Schinken with me, or
+a Stückchen of Cervelat with cheese--eh?  If you eat, you will be less
+nervous, and your fingers will become warm.  When you play, you are
+abstinent as a priest before the mass."
+
+The older man smoothed his beard, which was fast turning grey, and
+lifted the beer mug to his lips.
+
+"Ich danke!" said Velasco with irony: "My dear Kapellmeister, I am not
+as those who would serve Art with a bottle of champagne under each arm.
+I want no fumes in my brain and no clod between my fingers when I meet
+the Muse face to face."
+
+"You are right there," said Ritter thoughtfully, lowering his glass:
+"It is like a pearl coming out of the throat of a swine to hear the
+tones from Bauermann's fingers, when he can scarce keep himself at the
+pianoforte, and his head rocks between his shoulders like a top
+falling.  His sense of beauty is all that is left of him, and that
+seems over ripe, like a fruit left too long in the sun.  Materialism is
+the artist's curse.  Their heads are in the clouds and their feet are
+in the slough.--Pah!"
+
+The Kapellmeister tapped his glass sharply with the edge of his knife,
+and called without turning: "Hey--a Münchener, Fräulein!"
+
+He scanned the face of his companion curiously.  The Violinist seemed
+to be dreaming; he held the Rhine wine in his hand, gazing down into
+its liquid gold as if a vision lay at the bottom of the glass.
+
+"Velasco!"
+
+The Musician half raised his lids and then lowered them again.
+
+"Are you asleep, Velasco?"
+
+"Potztausend--no!  I hear what you say!  You speak of musicians and
+swine in the same breath.  It is true.  You ought to know, who wave the
+baton over them year in and year out.  They rise like a balloon and
+then they fall--!"
+
+He dropped his hands on the table with an expressive gesture.  "They
+give out through the senses; they take in the same way."  He lifted the
+glass, staring into it again: "But it is not through pleasure, not
+pleasure, Ritter, never pleasure, that their senses are developed, and
+they learn to feel, and give back what they have felt.  They think it
+is pleasure, and they fall into the error, and their art dies within
+them sooner or later.  It is like some fell thing clutching at their
+feet, and when they try to rise, it seizes them and drags them back,
+and they sink finally--they sink!"
+
+The Kapellmeister leaned forward on the table, scanning the young face
+opposite him: "A year ago, Velasco, your chin was round and full; from
+the look of your mouth one could tell that you had lived and enjoyed.
+You were like the Faun, happy and careless, and your art was to you
+like a plaything.  You cared only for your Stradivarius, and when you
+were not playing, you were nothing, not even a man.  All your genius
+was concentrated there in your brows where the music lies hidden.  Your
+virility was in your tones, and your strength in your fingers.  What
+has come over you?"
+
+"Am I changed?" said Velasco.  His throat contracted.  He held the
+glass to his lips, but he did not drink.
+
+The  Kapellmeister  gazed  at him strangely:  "Yes, you are changed.
+In one year you have grown ten.  What it is I cannot tell, but the look
+of your face is different.  The mouth has grown rugged and harsh; there
+are lines under your eyes, and your lips are firm, not full.  It is as
+if a storm had burst on a young birch, and torn it from its bank amid
+the grass and the heather, and an oak had grown up in its place,
+brought into life by the wind and the gale."
+
+Velasco tossed off the Moselle and laughed bitterly: "I have done with
+pleasure," he said, "I have lived and I know life; that is all.  There
+is nothing in it but work and music."
+
+"Tell me, Velasco," said the Kapellmeister slowly, "Don't be offended
+if I ask, or think that I am trying to pry into your affairs.  When you
+were rehearsing this morning it occurred to me.--There was something
+new in the quality of your tone.  Before, you were a virtuoso; your
+technique was something to gaze at and harken to, and there was no
+technique like it in Europe; now--"
+
+"Well--now?" cried Velasco, "Was I clumsy this morning?  Was anything
+the matter?  Potztausend!--why didn't you tell me?"
+
+His eyes gleamed suddenly under his brows and he twirled his fingers,
+toying with them nervously.  "Gott--Kapellmeister!  Why didn't you tell
+me at once?"
+
+"Now--" said the Kapellmeister: He looked up at the Bierfass, hanging
+by its chains, and his gaze wandered slowly over the legends on the
+wall, the gargoyles dripping; the mugs with their quaint tops and their
+handles twisted, the roof in its octagonal vaults, smoky, begrimed; and
+then back again to the table, and the flask before Velasco, yellow and
+slanting.
+
+"Now--" he said, "you are no longer a virtuoso, you are an artist, and
+that, as you know, is something infinitely greater and higher and more
+difficult of attainment.  All the great violins of my time I have
+heard; most of them I have conducted."
+
+Ritter's voice lowered suddenly to a whisper, and he leaned forward,
+touching the other's hand with his own: "I tell you, Velasco, and I
+know what I say--you played to-day at rehearsal as none of them played,
+not even Sarasati, king of virtuosi; or Joachim, prince of artists.
+You played as if the violin were yourself, and your bow were tearing
+your own heart strings. . . .  Don't move!  Don't get up!  What is it,
+Velasco?  You are white as death and your eyes are staring!  Listen to
+my question and answer it, or not, as you please.  This is not an age
+of miracles.  The birch was not torn from the bank without reason, or
+the oak transplanted.  Tell me--have you ever loved a woman?"
+
+There was a sudden silence in the Rathskeller.  It was almost deserted,
+and the waitresses were all in the garden, running forward and backward
+under the trees.  From outside came the sound of voices and glasses
+clinking; and close by, from the ledge, the slow trickle of the beer
+through the throats of the gargoyles.
+
+"Look at them!" said Velasco dreamily: "It is the Pilsener that runs
+through the dragons' mouths, and the Münchener through the devils'; a
+bizarre fancy that!"
+
+He stooped and struck a match against the table edge, lighting his
+cigarette.  "These are Russian, Kapellmeister, extra brand!  Try one!
+I prefer them to Turkish myself."  He leaned his head against the
+carvings of the partition, and drew the smoke in through his nostrils
+slowly, his eyes half closed.
+
+"It is a quarter to eight now," said Ritter, "but there is plenty of
+time.--I shouldn't have asked that question perhaps, Velasco.  Forgive
+me.  My own affairs have turned my thoughts too much on that subject."
+
+"Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember."  He
+passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his
+memory.
+
+Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his
+hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the
+wood with his fingers.
+
+"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco.  I have never spoken of it to any
+one; but somehow to-night it would be a relief to talk.  Brondi was
+staying at my house; he was the Tristan.  One night he gave out he was
+ill, and some one else took the part.  When I returned from the opera,
+he was gone and she was gone, and the house was dark and deserted."
+
+Ritter was silent for a moment.
+
+"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco, and I feel as if it were yesterday."
+
+The Violinist shaded his eyes from the light as if it hurt him: "When
+you came back," he said, "When you found out--what was it you felt,
+love or hate?"
+
+The Kapellmeister made a swift, repelling gesture as if some reptile
+had touched him: "Love!" he cried, "Hate!  Velasco--man, there is many
+a sin at my door; I am far from a saint heaven knows; but to deceive
+one who has trusted--to desert one who has loved and been loyal!  God!
+There is no worse crime than that, or more despicable!  Can one love,
+or hate, where there is only contempt?"
+
+He clenched his fist, and his eyes were like two sword points boring
+into the face opposite.
+
+"Contempt--" he said, "It has eaten into my heart like a poisonous drug
+and killed all else.  There is nothing left."
+
+The Kapellmeister took a long breath, then he continued hoarsely: "But
+I am a man; with a woman it is different.  Her heart is young and she
+knows nothing of the world.  It is like a stab in the dark from a hand
+she loves, and her heart is torn.  If she is brave, facing the world
+with a smile on her lips, she bleeds inwardly.  She is like a swan,
+swooping in circles lower and lower, with a song in her throat, until
+the great wings droop, and the eyes grow dim, and she falls finally,
+and the song is stilled.  But the last beat of her heart and the last
+echo of her voice is for him--for him who fired the shot in her breast!"
+
+He half rose in his seat with his hands trembling, and then sank back
+again.
+
+"Have you ever loved a woman and left her, Velasco?  Tell me--have you
+a deed like that on your conscience?"
+
+"I--?"  The Musician laughed aloud and took his hand from his face:
+"You are talking in riddles, Kapellmeister!  The beer has gone to your
+head, and you are drunk!  Look at the clock over yonder!--  What is
+love?  A will-o'-the-wisp!  You chase it and it eludes you; you clasp
+it and it melts into air!  There is nothing in life, I tell you, but
+music and work."
+
+He poured out another glass of the wine: "Here's to your health,
+Kapellmeister!  Prosit--my friend!  Put those grim thoughts from your
+mind, and women from your heart.  We must be off."
+
+He was quaffing the liquor at a gulp.
+
+"Prosit, Kapellmeister!"
+
+Ritter made no answer.  He sat staring moodily down at the table.  "You
+are young, Velasco, to be bitter.  Is it music, or work, that has
+carven those lines in your face?"
+
+There was a sting in his voice.
+
+The Violinist threw back his head like a horse at the touch of the
+spur.  His eyes blazed defiantly at the Kapellmeister for a moment, and
+then the light went out of them as flame from a coal.  The glass fell
+from his hand and lay shattered in fragments on the floor.  He stood
+looking down at them wearily:
+
+"That is my life," he said, "It is broken like the glass; and the wine
+is my love.  There is nothing left of it but a stain.  It has gone from
+me and is dead.  Come!"
+
+He lifted his violin, and the two men took their hats and went out,
+side by side, silently, without speaking.
+
+The room was empty.  Slowly from the throats of the gargoyles trickled
+the beer; and the Fass was like a great shadow hung from the ceiling by
+its chains.  From outside came the clamour of voices and laughter, and
+the waitresses sped to and fro.  The lights twinkled gayly under the
+spreading of the leaves, and the glasses clinked.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI.
+
+The Friedrichs-Halle was old and shabby and had originally been a
+market.  The entrance was under an arcade, and there was an underground
+passage, connecting the green-room with the stage-door of the Opera
+House; a passage narrow and ill-smelling, without windows or light; but
+dear to the hearts of musicians by reason of its associations.
+
+Mendelssohn had walked there, and Schumann, and Brahms; and the air, as
+it could not be changed, was the same.  The very microbes were musical,
+and the walls were smudged with snatches of motives, jotted down for
+remembrance.
+
+"Is there a seat left in the top gallery--just one?"
+
+"Standing room only, Madame."
+
+The ticket-seller, who sat in a box-like room under the arcade, handed
+out a slip of green paste-board, and then shut the window with a slam.
+The gesture of his hand expressed the fact that his business was now
+over.  Standing room also had ceased, and the long line of people
+waiting turned away with muttered exclamations.
+
+The foyer was like an ant-hill in commotion; people running forwards
+and backwards, trying vainly to bribe an entrance, until the noise was
+like hornets buzzing; while from behind came the sound of the orchestra
+tuning, faint raspings of the cellos, and the wails of the wood-winds,
+and above them the cry of a trumpet muffled.
+
+Kaya took the green paste-board hastily in her hand, clasping it, as if
+afraid it might in some way be snatched from her, and sped up the
+narrow stone stairway to the right, running fast until her breath
+failed her.  Still another turn, and another flight, and she stood in
+the Concert Hall, high up under the roof, where the students go, and
+the air is warm and heavy, and the stage looks far away.  The gallery
+was crowded.
+
+On the stage the orchestra were assembling, still tuning occasionally
+here and there where an instrument was refractory.  The scores lay open
+and ready on the desks.  A hum of excitement was over the House, and
+one name was on every lip: "Velasco!"--the Polish violinist, the
+virtuoso, the artist, whose fame had spread over all Europe.
+
+In Berlin he had had a furore; in Dresden the orchestra had carried him
+on their shoulders, shouting and hurrahing; in Leipzig, even Leipzig,
+where the critics are cold, and they have been fed music from their
+cradles, the glory of him had taken them all by storm.
+
+"Velasco!"
+
+The orchestra stood quietly now, expectant, each behind his desk.  A
+hush crept over the House.  The people leaned forward watching.  It was
+past the hour.
+
+Kaya stood wrapped in her cloak, leaning against the wall.  Her head
+was bare, and her hair was like a boy's, curling in rings and shining
+in the light.  Her eyes were fixed on the little door at the end of the
+stage.  Every time it opened slightly she started, and her heart gave a
+throb.  The air grew heavier.
+
+When it finally opened, it was Ritter who came out.  He strode hastily
+across the Stage, nodding shortly as if aware that the ripple of
+applause was not for him; then he took his place on the Conductor's
+stand with his back to the House, and waited, the baton between his
+fingers.  The door opened again.
+
+Kaya covered her eyes for a moment, and a little thrill went through
+her veins.  She swayed and leaned heavily against the wall.
+
+God!  It was seven months and a day since that night in the inn.  She
+was in his arms again, and he was bending over her, whispering
+hoarsely, his voice full of repressed anger and emotion:
+
+"Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms!  The gods only know why you
+said it, but it isn't the truth!  You love me--say you love me; say it,
+Kaya!  Let me hear you, my beloved!"
+
+He was pressing his lips to hers.
+
+"Take away your lips--Velasco!"
+
+Then she recovered herself with a start, and took her hand from her
+eyes.
+
+The door was ajar.  Velasco was coming through it carelessly,
+gracefully, with his violin under his arm; and as he came, he bowed
+with a half smile on his lips, tossing his hair from his brow.
+
+The audience was nothing to him; they were mere puppets, and as they
+shouted and clapped, welcoming him with their lips and their hands, he
+bowed again, slightly, indifferently, and laid the Stradivarius to his
+shoulder, caressing the bow with his fingers.
+
+Ritter struck the desk sharply with his baton and the orchestra began
+to play, drowning the applause; and it ceased gradually, dying away
+into silence.
+
+Then Velasco raised his bow.
+
+There was a hush, a stillness in the air, and he drew it over the
+strings--one tone, deep and pure with a rainbow of colours, shading
+from fortissimo, filling the House, to the faintest piano--pianissimo,
+delicate, elusive; breathing it out, and pressing on the string with
+his finger until it penetrated the air like an echo, and the bow was
+still drawing slowly, quiveringly.
+
+He swayed as he played, laying his cheek to the violin; the waves of
+dark hair falling over his brows.  His fingers danced over the strings,
+and his bow began to leap and sparkle.  The audience listened
+spellbound, without a whisper or movement.  The orchestra accompanied,
+but the sound of the violins in unison was as nothing to the single cry
+of the Stradivarius.
+
+It sang and soared, it was deep and soft; it was like the sighing of
+the wind through the forest, and the tones were like a voice.  From his
+instrument, his bow, his fingers, himself, went out a strange, mesmeric
+influence that seemed to stretch over the House, the audience, bending
+it, forcing it to his will; compelling it to his mood.
+
+As he played on and on, the influence grew stronger, more pervading,
+until his personality was as a giant and the audience pigmies at his
+feet, sobbing as his Stradivarius sobbed; laughing when it laughed;
+crying out with joy, or with pain, with frenzy or delight, as his bow
+rent the strings.  He scarcely heeded them.  His eyes were closed and
+he rocked the violin in his arms, swaying as in a trance.
+
+Kaya crouched against the wall; and as she listened, she gazed until it
+seemed as if her eyes were blinded, and she could no longer make out
+the slim lines of his figure, the dark head, and the bow leaping.
+
+The tones struck against her brain with a thrill of concussion like
+hail against a roof.  It was as if he were calling to her, pleading
+with her, embracing her.
+
+She stretched out her arms to him and the tears ran down her face.
+"Velasco!" she murmured, "Velasco--come back!  Put your arms around me!
+Don't look at me like that!  I love you--come back!"
+
+But no sound left her throat, and the cloak pinioned her arms.  She was
+crouching against the wall, and gazing and trembling: "Velasco--!"
+
+How different he was!  When he had played at the Mariínski, and she had
+tossed the violets from her loggia, he was a boy, a virtuoso.  Life and
+fame were before him; and he sprang out on the stage like a young
+Apollo, eager and daring.  And now--  She searched his face.
+
+There were lines there; shadows under his eyes, and his cheeks were
+thin.  The lower part of his face was like a rock, firm and harsh; and
+his brows were heavy and swollen.  Before, he had played with his
+fingers, and toyed with his art; now he played with his heart and his
+soul.  His youth was gone; he was a man.  He had known life and
+suffered.
+
+She stared at him, and her hands were convulsed, clasping one another
+under the cloak.  An impulse came over her to throw herself from the
+gallery at his feet, as she had flung the violets; and she crouched
+closer against the wall, clinging to it.
+
+"Velasco!--Velasco!"
+
+A roar went up from the House.
+
+The sound of the clapping was like rain falling; a mighty volume of
+sound, deafening, frightening.
+
+Kaya crouched still lower.  He had taken the violin from his cheek and
+was bowing; his eyes scanned the House with a nonchalant air.
+
+"Bravo--Velasco!"
+
+The people were standing now and stamping, and screaming his name.
+They hid him, and she could not see.  Kaya leaned forward, her gold
+hair gleaming in the light, her eyes fixed.
+
+"Velasco--Velasco!"
+
+Suddenly he started.
+
+He looked up at the gallery and his bow slipped from his hand.  He
+stared motionless.  The first violin stooped and picked up the bow.
+
+"Monsieur--" he whispered, "Monsieur Velasco, are you ill?"
+
+"No--no!"  The Violinist passed his hand over his eyes.  "No--I am not
+ill!  It was a vision--an illusion!  A trick of the senses!  It is gone
+now!"
+
+He bowed again mechanically, taking the bow, lifting the violin again
+to his cheek.  "An illusion!" he muttered:  "A trick of the senses!
+God, how it haunts me!"  He nodded to the Kapellmeister.
+
+They went on.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+"Let me out!" said Kaya, "I am faint--let me out!  Let me--out!"  She
+struggled to the door, through the crowd, pressing her way slowly,
+painfully.  Her cheeks were white and she was panting.
+
+"Ah--for God's sake!  Let me out!"
+
+
+"Come this way, Velasco, this way through the passage.  The din in the
+House is terrific--you have driven them mad!  Hark to your name, how
+they shout it and stamp!  They will be rushing to the stage door
+presently, as soon as the ushers have turned out the lights and the
+hope of your reappearance is gone.  No wonder, man--you played like a
+god!  You were like one inspired!  Shall you risk it; or will you come
+through to my room in the Opera House, where we can wait and smoke
+quietly until the clamour is past?"
+
+"Anywhere, Ritter, only to get away from that horrible noise!"  The
+Musician covered his ears with his hands and shuddered: "That is the
+worst of being an artist--there is no peace, no privacy!  The people
+consider one a music-box to wind up at their pleasure!  A pest on it
+all!"
+
+The two men quickened their footsteps, hurrying down the long corridor,
+and presently a door shut behind them.
+
+"There--thank heaven!" cried Ritter, "Around to the left now, Velasco,
+and then at the top of the stairs is my den.  Let me go first and open
+the door."
+
+The room was a small one, half filled with the bulk of a grand piano.
+About the walls ran shelf after shelf of music; opera scores and
+presentation copies in manuscript.  A bust of Wagner stood in the
+corner, and on the wall behind the pianoforte was a large painting in
+sepia, dim, with strong lights and shadows.
+
+The window was open, and below it lay the street, still in the
+darkness; above, the heavens were clear and the stars were shining.
+Ritter pulled forward an arm-chair and motioned the Musician towards it:
+
+"Sit down, Velasco.  Will you have a pipe, or cigar?  You look
+exhausted, man!  This fasting before is too much for you; you are pale
+as death.  Shall I send out the watchman for food, or shall we wait and
+go to the Keller together?"
+
+Velasco nodded and sank back in the chair, covering his eyes with his
+hand:
+
+"Is it usual for musicians to go mad?" he said.
+
+"Heavens!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "What are you talking about?
+Usual?  Of course not!  Some do.  What is the matter with you, Velasco?
+You are overwrought to-night."
+
+"No," he said, "No.  When you hear themes in your head, and rhythms
+throbbing in your pulses--is that a sign?"
+
+"Behüte!  We all have that.  After an opera my head goes round like a
+buzz-saw, and the motives spring about inside like demons.  If that is
+all, Velasco, you are not mad.  Take a cigarette."
+
+"Thank you, Ritter.  Tell me--when you conduct, is it as if force and
+power were going from you, oozing away with the music; and you were in
+a trance and someone else were wielding the baton, interpreting,
+playing on the instruments, not yourself?"
+
+The Kapellmeister shook his head grimly:  "Sometimes, Velasco, but not
+often; we are not all like you.  That is Genius speaking through you."
+
+"Afterwards," continued the Violinist, "it is as if one had had an
+illness.  To-night I am weary--Bózhe moi!  My body is numb, I can
+scarcely lift my feet, or my hands; only my nerves are alive, and they
+are like electric wires scintillating, jumping.  The liquid runs
+through my veins like fire!  Is that a--?"
+
+"Bewahre--bewahre!  You throw yourself into your playing headlong, body
+and soul.  It wrecks one mentally and physically to listen; how much
+more then to play!  If you were like others, Velasco, you would drink
+yourself to drowsiness and drown those sensations; or else you would
+seek pleasure, distraction.  When Genius has been with you, guiding
+your brain and your fingers, and you are left suddenly with an empty
+void, what else can you expect but reaction, nausea of life and of art?
+Bewahre, man!  That is no madness!  It is sanity--normal conditions
+returning.  You are mad when the Genius is with you, you are mad when
+you play; but now--now you are sane; you are like other men, Velasco,
+and you don't recognize yourself!"
+
+The Kapellmeister laughed, drawing whiffs from his cigar.
+
+Velasco uncovered his eyes: "You don't understand," he said slowly: "I
+see things--I have illusions!  It is something that comes and dances
+before me as I play, the same thing always.  I saw it to-night."
+
+"What sort of thing?"
+
+Velasco stared suddenly at the opposite wall.  "What is that painting
+there, Ritter?"
+
+"The one over the piano?  I bought it in St. Petersburg years ago, when
+I was touring: a copy of the Rembrandt in the 'Hermitage.'  Don't you
+know it?"
+
+"What is it?"
+
+"The Knight with the Golden Helmet' I call it; but it is really a
+'Pallas Athene.'"
+
+"The Knight--the Knight with the Golden Helmet!  That is no knight--it
+is the head of a woman, a girl; look at the oval of the cheek, the
+lips, the eyes!  That is no knight, nor is it a 'Pallas Athene'!--  My
+God!  I am going mad, I tell you!  Wherever I look, I see it before
+me--an illusion, a trick of the senses!  It is madness!"
+
+Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry.  "I can't bear it," he cried,
+"open the door!  Damn you, Ritter, get out of the way!"
+
+Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister,
+and then Ritter fell back.  The clutch on his shoulder was like iron.
+He fell back, and the door slammed.
+
+"Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him
+like that?  These musicians have nerves like live wires!  It is true
+what he said--he is mad!"
+
+The Kapellmeister went over to the painting on the wall and looked at
+it.  "A girl's head," he murmured, "he is right.  It is more like a
+'Pallas Athene' than a knight; but if it were not for the helmet
+glittering, and the spear--"
+
+Suddenly a remembrance came to him, and he struck his breast with his
+hand, crying out: "It is no knight!  It is Brünnhilde, young and fair,
+with her eyes downcast!  The light has fallen full on her face.  She is
+standing there, and the stage is dim; her voice is still in her throat,
+dying away!"
+
+Memory caught him then and he came nearer, shading his eyes with his
+hand, staring.  "She has hung on my wall for years and I never knew it!
+It is she--it is her living image--her eyes and her brow--her lips
+arched and quivering!  It is herself!"
+
+"Brünnhild'!"  He lifted his arms: "Brünnhild'!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+The sun came shining in through the garret windows, dancing over the
+floor in cones of light, caressing the geraniums until they gleamed a
+rich scarlet against the green of the ivy; and the cobwebs glistened
+like silk under the eaves.  About the mill the doves flew in circles,
+alighting on the sill, clinging to the ivy with their pink claws,
+cooing gently, and pecking at the worm-eaten casement.
+
+"Dear doves," said Kaya, "You are hungry, and when you come to me for
+bread you find nothing but the stone.  Chrr-rp!"  She whistled softly
+and held her hands over the sill, dropping crumbs: "Chrr-rp!  Come,
+pretty doves, and eat!"
+
+The birds came nearer, eying her out of their bright eyes with little
+runs forward, then circling and cooing again.
+
+"Chrr-rp!" she called,--"Chrr-rp!  Come!"  And she held out her hands
+as if coaxing: "Come, my doves!  Chrr-rp!"
+
+One with fawn-coloured wings came flying and lighted on her shoulder;
+another followed.
+
+"Come--chrr-rp!"
+
+The soft little bodies huddled against one another on the sill,
+pressing closer; some on her arm and some eating out of her hand.  She
+stroked their bright plumage, holding a crumb between her teeth.
+
+"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"
+
+The dove on her shoulder stretched his wings, pressing against her
+cheek with his breast, tipping forward on his pink feet, until his beak
+reached the crumb and he took it from her lips.
+
+"Chrr-rp--chrr-rp!"
+
+Kaya laughed softly, rubbing her cheek against the down of the bird;
+whistling and coaxing with her hands.  The doves flew about her,
+lighting, struggling for footing on her shoulder and curls; and she
+shook her head, laughing:
+
+"Chrr-rp--away with you!  Would you pluck my hair and line your nests
+with my curls!  Pischt--away with you!" she flung out the crumbs again.
+"There--eat, my pretty ones--eat!"
+
+Below, the great wheel turned and splashed in the water with a whirr,
+buzzing.  Kaya gazed down at it, and as she gazed she forgot the doves,
+and a strange little shudder went over her, so that the one on her
+shoulder lifted his wings in affright.
+
+The water was deep in the pool, and there were little ripples under the
+spokes where the sun-beams were dancing.  She dropped on her knees
+before the window and began to sing, still gazing at the wheel, the
+doves all about her, pianissimo--on the lower note of the scale,
+singing up, and then in arpeggios; each note distinct and separate like
+the link in a chain, pure, soft, hardly above a breath.
+
+As she sang, her voice rose gradually, deepening and increasing in
+power.  The doves pecked the crumbs on the sill, huddling against her
+and eating from her hands.  She began to trill from one note to
+another, and in trilling, her thoughts ran hither and thither even as
+her voice, and her eyes wandered from the wheel, resting dreamily on
+the promenade, and the people walking under the trees.
+
+The rhythm of a mazurka was in her ears and she sang louder, trying to
+drown it.  She was in a great hall vaulted, dome-like with marble
+columns; violins were playing and the sound rose and fell, invisible as
+from the clouds.  There was the perfume of flowers, heavy and
+languorous, and snatches of laughter, and the gleaming of jewels.  The
+floor was shining and polished like a mirror, reflecting the forms of
+the dancers as they whirled to and fro.  The light was dazzling and the
+colour.
+
+She was dancing.  Her feet flew in time to the rhythm. . . .  Now it
+was dark and she was lying back on a divan, faint, helpless.  The voice
+of the Prince was in her ears and he was bending over her; his eyes
+were crossed. . . .  Ah, the clock was striking!  It was midnight and
+someone had opened the door!  Someone was crossing the room and bending
+over papers on the desk! . . .  There was the sound of a shot!  She was
+holding the pistol in her hand . . .  It was smoking and through the
+vapoury wreathes she saw on the floor a body lying . . . a man on his
+face with his arms outstretched!
+
+She shuddered again and the doves rose uneasily, circling about her,
+and lighting with fluttering wings.
+
+"I have tried to atone," she whispered to the birds, "Come back!  God
+knows--I have tried to atone!"
+
+Then she went on trilling high up in the scale, her eyes gazing
+dreamily and her hands amongst the doves, stroking them, playing with
+them.
+
+Suddenly the door opened.
+
+"Is it you, Marta?"
+
+"No, it is I."
+
+The voice was that of a man, deep and harsh, and the steps were firm.
+They crossed the room and stopped behind the kneeling figure.
+
+"Hush!" said Kaya, "Not too near, dear Master!  You will frighten the
+doves!  See, how they press against me with their breasts and their
+wings--and how they flutter!  They were hungry this morning, but they
+have eaten now and are happy.  Once they came to me and I had nothing
+for them.  If they knew better, poor doves, it is you they would fly
+to, and your hands they would eat from; since it is you who have fed
+them, not I."
+
+"You were practising," said the Kapellmeister, "That is well, Kaya.  I
+heard you from the promenade and I saw you.  Your curls were like a
+halo of gold in the sun, and the doves circled, cooing.  One was on
+your shoulder.  Ah, it has gone now--I have startled it!  It was close
+to your cheek, and you were feeding it from your lips."
+
+"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes.  It is sweet to be able to feed them.  You have
+fed us both, dear Master."
+
+She turned her head slightly, smiling up at him.
+
+"Turn your head further, Kaya; let me see your face."
+
+"The dove has come back.  How can I?  There--move a little, my
+dove--chrr-rp!  Go away!  No, he clings!  See--I cannot!  The down on
+his breast is so soft and his feathers so warm.  He presses so close."
+
+"Tell me, little one, how is your voice today?  The same--full and
+strong as it was that night?  Are you Kaya to-day, or Brünnhild'?"
+
+The girl smiled again.
+
+"Look at me, child.  I have come to talk to you.  There is a rehearsal
+this morning for 'Siegfried.'"
+
+"Ah--yes!"
+
+"The performance is advertized for tomorrow."
+
+"--Yes?"
+
+"Are you listening, Kaya?  Your voice has a dreamy sound.  What are you
+thinking about?"
+
+She started.  "Nothing!"
+
+"What are you thinking about?  Tell me."
+
+"Russia!"
+
+The Kapellmeister gave a sharp exclamation: "That is why you would not
+turn your head!  It was not the dove, I knew.  Are you still--"
+
+"Yes," said Kaya, "Yes, it never leaves me.  The curse, the curse of
+the--Cross!"
+
+She pressed her cheek against the dove, hiding her eyes.
+
+"It must leave you!" said the Kapellmeister roughly, "There is work for
+you to do!  Rouse yourself, Kaya!  Drive away the doves now or I will
+do it myself.  If you brood, you will ruin your voice--do you hear me?"
+
+"Pischt!" said Kaya, "Now they are gone--!  I will not think any more
+of Russia to-day."
+
+The Kapellmeister went to the window and laid his hand where the dove
+had been, pressing the slender shoulder and forcing her to turn.
+
+"I want you," he said, "Now--this morning!  I have come for you!"
+
+Kaya rose to her feet slowly: "To sit aloft in the flies and sing while
+Siegfried seeks me?"  She smiled up at him; "You have come for your
+bird?"
+
+"No."
+
+Her eyes searched his.  "No," she faltered, "did I sing badly?  I--I
+thought--"
+
+"Kaya, the Schultz is ill."
+
+The colour rushed to the girl's face and then fled away again, leaving
+her pale.  "Ill!" she stammered, "You look at me so strangely, dear
+Master!"
+
+"The Directors have authorized me to wire to Dresden for another
+soprano."
+
+"Yes--?"
+
+"I refused."
+
+Kaya raised her blue eyes.
+
+"I told them I had a Brünnhilde here on the spot.  Can you do it?  I
+have taken the risk.  Can you do it?  If you sing as you did that
+night--!"
+
+"I will," cried Kaya, "I will!"  She pressed against him like the
+doves, clasping her hands together.  "It is only the one scene, Master;
+I know it so well, every note!  Many times I rehearsed it with
+Helmanoff, many times.  Bring me the helmet and the spear--bring me
+Siegfried!"  Her eyes were shining.
+
+"Then come with me now," cried the Kapellmeister, "As you are!  Is that
+your hat on the nail?  Put it on.  The placards are out--and the
+orchestra sits in the pit, waiting.  I have promised them a Walküre
+with a voice like a bell!  Come, Kaya--come!  You are not nervous,
+little one, or afraid?"
+
+Kaya ran lightly to the peg and took down her hat.  She was laughing,
+and her face was alight as if the sun-beams had touched it; her lips
+were parted and the dimples came and went in her cheeks:
+
+"Now--my cloak!" she cried, "Quick!  Help me--the right sleeve, dear
+master, can you find it?  Yes--yes!  And my gloves--here they are!"
+
+"Kaya, your face is like a rose and your feet are dancing."
+
+She blushed.  "You don't know," she said, "I have dreamed all my life
+of being Brünnhilde.  When I feel the helmet and the shield on my
+breast, and the touch of the spear--it is like wine!"  She stopped
+suddenly and passed her hand over her face.
+
+"What is it, Kaya?"
+
+"I forgot," she said, "I forgot--!  Take my cloak; take my hat!  I
+cannot sing.  I forgot!"
+
+Ritter stared at her: "What do you mean, child; what are you talking
+about?  Is it fright?  Tschut!  It will pass."  He took the cloak again
+and laid it about her shoulders: "Come now, the orchestra will be
+growing impatient.  It is ten o'clock past."
+
+"I cannot," said Kaya, and her lip trembled: "Telegraph to Dresden,
+dear Master--quickly!"
+
+"Potztausend--and why?"
+
+She backed slowly away from him and the cloak fell to the ground.
+
+"Kaya, you shake as if you had a chill!"
+
+"Can Brünnhilde sit aloft in the flies?" she said, "She is there in
+front of the footlights and everyone sees her.  Oh--I forgot!"
+
+"Donnerwetter!  Of course she is seen!  Is it the sight of the audience
+that will frighten you?"
+
+"No," she said, "not the audience."
+
+Ritter made an impatient movement forward: "What then?  Sacrement!  You
+were full of joy not a moment ago; there was no fear in your eyes, and
+now--it is as if someone had struck you!"  He followed her to the
+corner where she had retreated step by step; and when she could go no
+further, he laid his hands on her shoulders.
+
+"Look at me," he said, "straight in the eyes, Kaya, straight in the
+eyes.  You must."
+
+"I--cannot!"
+
+"I tell you you must."
+
+He bent over her, and she felt his hands bearing heavily on her
+shoulders; his eyes were flashing, insistent, determined: "You must."
+
+"I cannot."
+
+"Come."
+
+She shook her head.
+
+"Kaya--!  You have been like my child!  I--I love you as my own
+daughter!  Your career, your success is dear to me.  I have ventured
+more than you know on this chance--that you might have it.  The town is
+crowded with strangers.  The House will be full.  They will hear you
+and your fame may be made in a night!  What is the matter with you,
+little one?"
+
+"I cannot," said Kaya.
+
+His grasp grew heavier.  "If you throw away this chance--listen to
+me--it may be years before you have another.  You are young, and
+managers are hard to approach; you found that yourself.  It is the
+merest accident of fate that the Schultz should be ill just now, while
+no other soprano is on hand, and you know the part.  You sang it for
+me, Kaya, that night, and your voice was Brünnhilde's own.  Would you
+be a coward now?  Come, and let me cover you with the shield and the
+helmet; when you feel the spear in your hand the fright will leave you.
+It is not like you to be afraid, Kaya.  Your eyes are like a doe's!
+Don't be frightened, little one."
+
+She looked at him and tried to speak, but no words came.
+
+"If I yielded to you, Kaya, if I let you be conquered by the
+stage-terror once, it would be a rock in your path forever.  Come with
+me!  My will is strong, stronger than yours, and I swear you shall
+come!  If I have to carry you in my arms to the stage, you shall come;
+and you will thank me for it afterwards when the terror has passed."
+
+"No--no!"  The girl pressed closer against the wall, "Don't, dear
+Master, take your hands from my shoulders.  I cannot!"
+
+"Come."
+
+"No."
+
+He stared down into the blue eyes: "I tell you you shall come.  You are
+throwing away the chance of a lifetime; do you understand?  If you have
+no care for your own future, I shall care for it for you.  Kaya!"
+
+"No."
+
+"Come, I tell you!"
+
+His eyes were hard and cold, and her form was slight; it reeled in his
+grasp.  She gazed at him and her chin was set like his own.
+
+"If you care for me, Kaya, if you are grateful--" he hesitated, "Ah,
+come with me, Kaya!  It is not fear I see in your eyes; it is something
+else.  What is it?  Tell me!"  He put his arm about her shoulders
+suddenly, and the harsh look left his face: "Confide in me, little one,
+I won't try to force you.  You are slight and frail, but your will is
+like iron; it is useless.  If I carried you it would be useless."
+
+Kaya took a quick breath.  "Dear Master," she said, "It is not the
+audience I fear, not the audience, but it is someone in the audience.
+If that someone should see me and--and recognize me!"
+
+"You forget, Kaya; did I recognize you?"
+
+"No, but the foot-lights were not in my face.  When the House is
+crowded and the curtain is up, and the glare is full in my eyes, then--"
+
+"You are disguised by the hair red-blonde, and the helmet covering.  No
+one could tell!  At a distance you are not Kaya, you are Brünnhilde.
+Brünnhilde is always the same.  When your eyes are hidden, Kaya, and
+your curls--the House is large--no one could tell!"  He was drawing her
+slowly toward the door.
+
+"You did not," said Kaya, "but--if he were there he would know."
+
+"Who?"
+
+She looked at him mutely, and he took his hand from her shoulder.
+
+"Whoever it is," exclaimed Ritter harshly, "from the House, I swear to
+you, your own mother would not know you, unless she had seen you before
+in the part.  That is nonsense!  From the orchestra perhaps, from the
+conductor's stand--but not from the House.  Kaya, you hurt me, child;
+you hurt me sorely if you refuse!"
+
+He stood before her with his arms folded.  "My heart is set on your
+success," he said, "and if--"
+
+Kaya, looking up suddenly, saw that there were tears in his eyes.
+"Master," she cried.  And then her will broke suddenly like iron in a
+furnace, red-hot under the stroke of the hammer.  "You are sure?" she
+cried, "From the House no one would know me?  You are sure?"
+
+"I am sure."
+
+She hesitated, looking away from him.
+
+"No one?" she repeated, "not even--"
+
+Then she raised her eyes and came closer to the Kapellmeister, looking
+up in his face.  "He loves me," she stammered, "And I--I love him!  But
+the curse is between us--if he should find me again--!  Ah, it is
+myself I am afraid of--myself!"  Her breath came in sobs and her face
+quivered.
+
+The Kapellmeister lifted the cloak from the floor and put it around her
+shoulders.  There was a strange light in his eyes.  He gazed at her for
+a moment; then he caught her by the hand and drew her toward the door.
+
+"Come!" he said, "Trust me, Kaya.  I understand--at last I understand.
+Come!"
+
+She yielded without a word.
+
+They were both trembling.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+The second Act was over.  The curtain had descended slowly, hiding the
+singers; the lights had flashed up, revealing the House.  It was
+crowded from the pit to the gallery.  The double row of loggias was
+ablaze with colour; and from them came a light ripple of talk and of
+laughter, broken loose as the curtain fell, a sound like the running of
+water over smooth pebbles.
+
+The Schultz was ill.  So it was advertized all over the foyer on huge
+yellow placards; and a new Brünnhilde was to take her place.  The name
+was unknown; a young singer doubtless, brought forward under the stress
+of the dilemma.  The audience whispered together and the ripple grew
+louder.  In the next Act, the final scene, she would appear.  The
+moments were passing.
+
+Suddenly the door at the back of one of the loggias opened, and an
+usher ran hurriedly in.  He gave a hasty glance over the occupants, and
+then bent and whispered to a gentleman in the rear.
+
+"Monsieur Velasco?"
+
+The gentleman nodded.
+
+"Sir--the Kapellmeister has been seized with a sudden attack of
+giddiness and is unable to continue with the performance.  He begs
+earnestly that you will conduct the last Act in his place."
+
+"I--?" said Velasco.
+
+"There is no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it.  The
+Kapellmeister is in great distress.  The minutes are passing."
+
+"Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come."  He rose and
+followed the usher from the loggia.
+
+When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure
+appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head
+with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were
+visible.  The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it.
+
+The Act was progressing.
+
+Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Brünnhilde, hiding
+it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil.  Flames flashed up here
+and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees.
+As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more
+vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins
+were to the ear as the flames to the eye.  The stage was a billow of
+smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling,
+leaping.
+
+The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths.  The
+music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience
+beat fast to the rhythm.
+
+Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of
+Brünnhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess
+herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking
+through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand.
+He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walküre, straight
+and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear
+by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the
+flare of the flames.  "Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!"
+
+Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her--he had taken the shield
+from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.
+
+The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle,
+hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and
+Siegfried stooping. . . .  Presently she stirred.  The smoke had grown
+lighter, more vapoury, translucent.  Her form stirred slowly, dreamily,
+raising itself from the couch.  The magic was broken; the goddess was
+aroused at last.
+
+Brünnhilde opened her eyes--and half kneeling, half reclining, she
+stared about her, dazed, half conscious.  Siegfried hung over her.  The
+flames, the smoke were dying away.  She seemed in a trance; and then,
+as she gazed at the sky and the sunlight, the rocks and the trees, her
+lips parted suddenly; she raised her arms, half in bewilderment half in
+ecstasy, stretching them upwards, and began to sing.
+
+It was like a lark, disturbed by the reapers, rising from its nest in
+the meadows.  The notes came softly, dreamily from her throat; and then
+as she rose slowly to her feet, clasping the spear, it was as if a
+floodgate had been opened and the sounds poured out, full, glorious,
+irresistible, ringing through the darkness and the silence of the
+House.  Drawn to her height she stood, the helmet tipped back on her
+red-blonde hair, the white robes trailing about her, the spear
+uplifted.  As she sang her throat swelled, her voice came like a
+torrent: above the wood-winds and strings, the brass and the basses,
+the single voice soared higher and higher, deeper and richer, full of
+passion and pure.
+
+  "Heil dir, Sonne!
+  Heil dir, Licht!
+  Heil dir, leuchtender Tag!"
+
+
+The "Heil" was like a clarion note ringing through space; like the
+sound of an echo through mountain passes.  The audience listened and
+gazed as under a spell; the orchestra played as it had never played
+before; the baton waved.  Siegfried sang to her and she responded;
+their voices rising and mingling together, every note a glory.
+
+On the stage, still dim with the smoke and the flames, the light grew
+stronger, illuminating the helmet of Brünnhilde, the tip of her spear,
+falling full on her face and her eyes.  She drew nearer the
+foot-lights, still singing, her sight half blinded, gazing
+unconsciously into the pit of the House and the darkness.  She was
+clasping her spear, and her voice rose high above the violins.
+
+Her eyes sought the baton, the face of her Master; and then as she
+stood, she trembled suddenly.  Her voice died away in her throat; her
+steps faltered.
+
+The Conductor leaned over the desk, the baton moving mechanically as if
+the fingers were stiffened.  The orchestra played on.  A shudder ran
+over the House.
+
+What had happened?  Brünnhilde had stopped singing.  Siegfried was
+trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own.  The Walküre stood
+motionless, transfixed, her eyes riveted on the Conductor.  A slight
+murmur ran over the House: "Was she ill--struck with sudden paralysis?
+Or was it the stage-terror, pitiless, irresistible, benumbing her
+faculties?"
+
+She stood there; and then she stretched out her hands, trembling; her
+voice came back.
+
+"Velasco!" she cried.
+
+"Kaya--Kaya!"
+
+But the audience thought she had called out to Siegfried, and to
+encourage her they applauded, clapping and stamping with their feet and
+their hands.  The sound revived her suddenly like the dash of cold
+water on the face of a sleep-walker.
+
+"I must go on!" she said to herself, "Whatever happens I must go on!"
+Her eyes were still riveted.
+
+The face of Velasco was white as death; great drops stood out on his
+brows, his fingers quivered over the baton.  He moved it mechanically,
+gazing, and he swayed in his seat as if faint and oppressed.  The other
+hand was stretched trembling toward her as if a vision had come in his
+path suddenly and he was blinded.
+
+Her lips moved again, and his.  For a moment it seemed as if he were
+about to leap to the stage over the foot-lights.  Brünnhilde fell back.
+
+"For God's sake!" whispered Siegfried, "What is it?  Are you mad?
+Sing--sing!  Let out your voice--take up your cue!  Go on!"
+
+Again she cried out; but this time her voice was in the tone, and the
+emotion of it, the longing, rent the air as with passion unveiled and
+bared.  She shook the spear aloft in her hands, brandishing it, until
+the gleam from the flames lit it up like a spark, and fell on her
+helmet.
+
+Siegfried besought her and she answered, they sang together; but as she
+answered, singing, her eyes were still fixed, and she sang as one out
+of herself and inspired.
+
+  "Siegfried!"
+  "Brünnhilde!"
+  "Siegfried!  Siegfried! seliger Held!
+  Pu Wecker des Lebens, siegendes Licht!"
+
+
+The tempo quickened and the rhythm; and the tones grew higher and
+richer, ringing, more passionate.  Such acting--such singing!  It was
+as if the Walküre herself had come out of the trance back to life, and
+the audience saw Brünnhilde in the flesh.  The House reverberated to
+the sound of her voice; it was a glory, a revelation.
+
+She sang on and on, and Siegfried answered; but the eyes of the Singer,
+and her hands lifted, were toward the House, the orchestra pit, the
+desk, the baton--the head with its dark hair falling and the arm
+outstretched.
+
+The curtain fell slowly.
+
+"Brünnhilde!  Brünnhilde!"
+
+With the flaring up of the lights the House was in an uproar.  "Who was
+she?  What was she?  Where did she come from?  Ah--h!  Brünnhilde!"
+
+They clapped and stamped, and shouted themselves hoarse, calling her
+name: "Brünnhilde!"
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+"She is there!" cried the Kapellmeister, "Go to her, Velasco; go to her
+quickly!  Gott!  I thought the Opera would have come to a standstill!
+My heart was in my mouth!--Go!"
+
+He pushed the Violinist towards the door and closed it behind him; then
+he fell back against the wall and listened.  The noise in the House was
+like a mob let loose.
+
+"Brünnhilde!  Why doesn't she come?  Bring her before the
+curtain! . . .  Brünnhilde!"
+
+"I must go," he said, "I must speak to them--tell them anything--she is
+ill--she is exhausted!  Something--it doesn't matter!  I must go and
+quiet the tumult!"
+
+The Kapellmeister leaned for a moment against the background of the
+scenery; he looked at the door and listened.  The House was going mad:
+"Brünnhilde!  Brünnhilde!"
+
+Then, staggering a little, with his hands to his face, he went out on
+the stage.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV.
+
+"Kaya!"
+
+"Velasco!  Ah, Velasco!  Don't come--don't touch--me!"
+
+He sprang forward.
+
+She was still in the Brünnhilde dress with the helmet on her head and
+the white robes trailing.  The spear lay at her feet.  He trampled on
+it as he sprang, snatching her into his arms: "Kaya!"
+
+His grip was like a band of steel and he wound his arms about her,
+pressing her to him: "Kaya, my beloved!  Ah, my beloved--speak to me!
+Open your eyes!  Look at me!"  He tore the helmet from her head and
+flung it to the ground.  The red-blonde hair fell back, and he kissed
+her cheek and her curls.
+
+He was like a whirlwind wooing, and she like a lily blown by the gale.
+She lay in his arms.  Her lips quivered as he kissed them, but she lay
+without motion or sign.
+
+"Are you faint?" he cried, "Have you swooned?  Kaya!  It is as if the
+world had gone to pieces suddenly and this were chaos, and only you and
+I--only you and I."
+
+He kissed her eyelids.
+
+"Open them, Kaya, they are blue as the sky."
+
+He kissed her throat.
+
+"It swells like a bird's when it trills, and the sound of it is as a
+nightingale in the twilight."
+
+He kissed her lips.
+
+"Ah, they are warm; they quiver and tremble!"
+
+His arms were so strong she was pinioned, and she panted as she
+breathed.  He kissed her again and again as one who is starving and
+thirsty, and she stirred in his arms, lifting her face:
+
+"Velasco--my husband--my--self!  To lie in your arms--it is heaven, and
+to leave them is hell!  Let me go--Velasco!  I love you--I love you!
+Let me--go!"
+
+"So long as the world lasts and there is strength in my body--never!
+Say you love me again."
+
+"I love you."
+
+"You will never leave me?  You will stay with me always while we live?
+Say it, Kaya!  Your cheeks are white like a sea-shell; they flush like
+a rose when I press them with my lips!  Say it, Kaya!  You are
+trembling--you are sobbing!"
+
+"I must leave you, Velasco--I cannot stay.  It is like leaving one's
+life and one's soul!"
+
+He laughed: "Leave me then!  Can you stir from my arms?  They are
+strong.  I will hold you forever."  He laid his dark, curly head
+against the gold of her curls, and she felt his breath against her
+throat.
+
+She opened her eyes: "My hands, Velasco--they are stained with blood;
+have you forgotten?  How can I stay with you when there is--blood on
+my--hands?"
+
+He pressed her closer: "Give them to me; let me kiss the stains!"
+
+"I am cursed, Velasco, I am cursed!  I have taken the life of a man!"
+
+He held his breath suddenly, moving his face until he could see into
+her eyes.  "Ah," he said, "Is that why you left me, Kaya, because of
+the curse?"
+
+"Yes--Velasco."
+
+"You loved me then!  It was a lie?  Kaya, tell me!"
+
+"I loved you, Velasco, I loved you!"
+
+"And now--?"
+
+She clung to him and his arms tightened.
+
+Suddenly he laughed again.  "Hark!" he cried, "You hear the shouting?
+They are shouting for you!  They are stamping and clapping for you;
+they are calling your name!"  He threw back his head, laughing madly:
+
+"Come--Kaya! Let us go together and peep through the curtain.  The
+first time I saw you, you were there in the House, and I behind on the
+stage alone, with your violets.  Now we are together.  You will leave
+me, you say?  Come, Kaya, and look at the House through the curtain.
+You are trembling, little one; and when I put you down on your feet you
+can scarcely stand.  You are sorry to leave me?  It is like tearing
+one's heart from one's body while one still lives!  Will you tear it,
+beloved?  Come--and look through the hole in the curtain."
+
+He put his arm about her, drawing her forward, looking down at her
+curls.  "You are weak, Kaya; your form sways like the stem of a flower.
+Lean against me.  Let me lead you.  It is because your heart is so
+loyal and true; to kill it will be killing yourself!  Don't sob, Kaya!
+Look through the curtain!  Hark at the stamping!  Look--dear
+beloved--lean on my shoulder and look!"
+
+"Ah, Velasco, it is like a great mob; the Kapellmeister is there before
+the curtain.  He tries to speak, but they will not listen!  They are
+calling: 'Brünnhilde--Brünnhilde!'  Is that for me?"
+
+"For you."
+
+"Why should I look, Velasco--why should I listen?  My heart is
+breaking.  I cannot bear it--Velasco!"
+
+"Lean on my shoulder; look again, Kaya, put your eyes to the hole.  Do
+you see a loggia above to the left, full of people standing, and in
+front some one tall and in uniform?"
+
+"No, Velasco--I see nothing!"
+
+"It is the tears in your eyes, Kaya!  Brush them away and look once
+again.  Don't you see him--in uniform, tall with a beaked nose, a grey
+mustache and his eyes crossed?"
+
+"His eyes crossed--Velasco!  Are you mad?  He is dead!  I tell you,
+Velasco, he is--dead!  The Grand-Duke Stepan!--I killed him!"
+
+"He is not dead."
+
+"The Grand-Duke Ste--"
+
+"He is not dead.  He lives and he stands there before you--clapping and
+shouting your name."
+
+She gazed up at him with trembling lips: "There is no curse,
+Velasco--he lives?  There is--no curse--no stain on my hands?  Am I
+mad?  No curse of the Cross--the Black Cross?"
+
+"Kaya--my beloved!"
+
+She fell back slowly against his breast and his arms closed around her.
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Cross, by Olive M. Briggs
+
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