"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-Muehle, 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, feted, 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, Michaeel—Michaeel, 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.



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-Muehle 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-Muehle! 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

"Fraeulein, Fraeulein—open the door! There is a gentleman here who would speak with you!—Fraeulein!"

The blows redoubled on the stout oak, growing louder and more persistent. "Fraeulein! 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: "Fraeulein—!" 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 Fraeulein, 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 Fraeulein; 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 conge!" 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, Fraeulein; 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, Fraeulein? 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, Fraeulein, 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, Fraeulein! 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 Guete!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "If the bird isn't trying its wings! Behuete, 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, Fraeulein, 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 Fraeulein 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, Fraeulein? 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, Fraeulein, 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, Fraeulein?"

"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, Fraeulein, 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 Bruennhilde—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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde. How glorious to be a Bruennhilde!"

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.



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 Fraeulein 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 Bruennhilde, 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 Walkuere 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, "Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde!' 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 Bruennhilde!"

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—Bruennhilde?"

"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 Bruennhilde herself! Come, let her sing to you! The scene is still there on the stage, the rocks and the fir-tree—and Bruennhilde'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; Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Walkuere, 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 Bruennhilde 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.

Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Walkuere 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 Bruennhilde." Her form stiffened suddenly and she threw off his grasp, springing forward and crouching:

"You are Wotan and you are angry," she whispered, "The Bruennhilde 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 verstoesest 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 verstoesest 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 Bruennhilde, 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 Bruennhilde. 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 Bruennhilde 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: