"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 Bruennhilde; 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-Muehle!" 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: "Bozhe 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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—Bruennhild'!"

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 Muenchener!"

"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, Fraeulein, 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 Stueckchen 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 Muenchener, Fraeulein!"

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 Muenchener 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 Mariinski, 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?"

"Behuete! 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—Bozhe 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 Bruennhilde, 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!"

"Bruennhild'!" He lifted his arms: "Bruennhild'!"



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 Bruennhild'?"

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 Bruennhilde 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 Walkuere 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 Bruennhilde. 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde'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 Bruennhilde. Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde, 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 Bruennhilde, 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 Walkuere, 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. "Bruennhilde—Bruennhilde!"

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.

Bruennhilde 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 Bruennhilde, 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? Bruennhilde had stopped singing. Siegfried was trying in vain to cover her part, singing his own. The Walkuere 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. Bruennhilde 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!" "Bruennhilde!" "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 Walkuere herself had come out of the trance back to life, and the audience saw Bruennhilde 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.

"Bruennhilde! Bruennhilde!"

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! Bruennhilde!"

They clapped and stamped, and shouted themselves hoarse, calling her name: "Bruennhilde!"

* * * * * *

"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.

"Bruennhilde! Why doesn't she come? Bring her before the curtain! . . . Bruennhilde!"

"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: "Bruennhilde! Bruennhilde!"

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 Bruennhilde 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: 'Bruennhilde—Bruennhilde!' 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.

THE END