e idol, the
young god, who was to charm their hearts with his four strings?--for
whom they had paid fifteen roubles, twenty--twenty-five until there
wasn't a seat left, not even standing room; only the crimson-curtained
Imperial Loggia in the centre, solitary, significant.

The time passed; the minutes dragged slowly.

Suddenly the curtains moved. An usher appeared and placed a chair.
Another moment of silence; then a tall, grey-haired, military figure
stepped to the front of the loggia and bowed to right and to left; his
eyes, small and black and crossed, glancing haughtily over the throng.
"At last!"--The applause was mechanical, in strict accordance with
etiquette, but there was a relieved note in it and the thousands of
straining eyes leaped back to the stage, eager and watchful.

All at once a small door in the wings opened slightly and a slim boyish
figure strode across the boards, a mane of dark hair falling over his
brows.

"Velasco!" A roar went up from the House--"Velasco!
Ah--h--viva--Velas--co!"

Instantly, with a tap of his baton, the conductor motioned for silence,
and then, with the first downward beat, the orchestra began the
introduction to the concerto.

The young Violinist stood languidly, his Stradivarius tucked under his
arm, the bow held in a slim and graceful hand. His dark eyes roamed
over the brilliant spectacle before him, from tier to tier, from top to
bottom. He had seen it all before many times; but never so beautiful,
so vast an audience, such a glory of colour, such closeness of
attention. Raising his violin, with a strange, dreamy swaying of his
young body, Velasco drew the bow over the quivering strings in the
first solo passage of the Vieuxtemps.

The tones rose and fell above the volume of the orchestra. The depth
of them, the sweetness seemed to penetrate to the uttermost corner. A
curious tenseness came over the listening audience. Not a soul
stirred. The Grand-Duke sat motionless with his head in his hands.
The strings vibrated to each individual heart-beat; the bow sighed over
them, and with the last note a murmur and then a roar went up.

Velasco stirred slightly, dropped his bow and bowed, without raising
his eyes. Then, hardly waiting for the applause to subside, the second
movement began, slow and passionate. The notes became fuller and more
sensuous. The hush deepened. The silence grew more intense; a strain
of listening, a fixed eagerness of watching.