eekly visits of an old fisherman and his
son, who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His
dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a
rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast,
betook himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run
riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive
song, then conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither
satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever
man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but
was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work
closed, he wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, "Not
yet, not yet; I have not found it."

Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with
the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in
monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a
further thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will.
With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the
violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his arms
he cried, in the agony of despair: "It is of no use! If the God of
heaven will not aid me, I ask the prince of darkness to come."

A tall, rather spare, but well-made and handsome man appeared at the
door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with
the usages of good society.

"I beg pardon," said the musician, surprised and visibly nettled at
the intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: "To whom am I
indebted for this unexpected visit?"

"Allow me," said the stranger taking a card from his case and handing
it to the musician, who read: "Satan," and, in the lower left-hand
corner, "Prince of Darkness."

"I am the Prince," said the stranger, bowing low.

There was no hint of the pavement-made ruler in the information he
gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right
at the beginning. The musician assumed a position of open-mouthed
wonder, gazing steadily at the visitor.

"Satan?" he whispered hoarsely.

"You need help and advice," said the visitor, his voice sounding like
that of a disciple of the healing art, and implying that he had
thoroughly diagnosed the case.

"No, no," cried the shuddering violinist; "go away. I do not need
you."

"I regret I can not accept that statement as gospel truth," said
Satan,