ied, and spoke at intervals to her
attendant.

"I must be a queer-looking bird to this Turk and her keeper--probably
some Georgian going to a rich Mussulman's harem in company with his
eunuch," Pobloff repeated to himself.

A gong was banged. Before its strident vibrations had ceased troubling
the thin morning air, the train began to move slowly out of Kerb.
Pobloff again was glad.

He remained on the rear platform of his car as long as the white
station, beginning to blister under a tropical sun, was in sight. Then
he sought his compartment. His amazement and rage were great when he
found the two window seats occupied by the negro and the mysterious
creature. Pobloff's bag was tumbled in a corner, his overcoat, hat, and
umbrella tossed to the other end of the room. The big black man bared
his teeth smilingly, the shrouded girl shrank back as if in fear.

"Well, I'll be--!" began the composer. Then he leaned over and pushed
the button, the veins in his forehead like whipcords, his throat parched
with wrath. But to no avail--the bell was broken. Pobloff's first
impulse was to take the smiling Ethiopian by the neck and pitch him out.
There were several reasons why he did not: the giant looked dangerous;
he plainly carried a brace of pistols, and at least one dagger, the
jewelled handle of which flashed over his glaring sash of many tints.
And then the lady--Pobloff was very gallant, too gallant, his wife said.
The bell would not ring! What was he to do? He soon made up his mind,
supple Slav that he was. With a muttered apology he sank back and closed
his eyes in polite despair.

His consternation was overwhelming when a voice addressed him in
Russian, a contralto voice of some indefinable timbre, the voice of a
female, yet not without epicene intonations. His eyes immediately
opened. From her gauze veiling the young woman spoke:--

"We are sorry to derange you. The guard made a mistake. Pardon!" The
tone was slightly condescending, as if the goddess behind the cloud had
deigned to notice a mere mortal. Her attendant was smiling, and to
Pobloff his grin resembled a newly sliced watermelon. But her voice
filled him with ecstasy. His ear, as sensitive as the eye of a Claude
Monet, noted every infinitesimal variation in tone-colour, and each
shade was a symbol for the fantastic imagination of this poetic
composer. The girlish voice affected him strangely. It pierced his soul
like a poniard. It made his spine chilly. It