Suddenly, in the midst, the Violinist raised his head from his
instrument, drawing the bow with a slow, downward, caressing pressure
over the E string. His eyes, half veiled and dreamy, looked straight
across the House into a loggia next to the Imperial Box, impelled
thereto by some force outside of his own consciousness.

A girl with an exquisite flower-like face was leaning over the crimson
rail, her gaze on his, fixed and intent. The gold of her hair
glistened in the light. Her lips were parted, the bosom of her dress
rising and falling; her small hands clasped.

Velasco gazed steadily for a moment; then he dropped his head again,
and swaying slightly played on.

The bow seemed fairly to rend the strings. He toyed with the
difficulties; his scales, his arpeggios were as a flash, a ripple of
notes tumbling over one another, each one a pearl. His lion's mane
caressed the violin; his cheek pressed it like a living thing, closely,
passionately, and it answered like a creature possessed.

As the strings vibrated to the last dying note, the beauty of it, the
virtuosity, the abandon, drove the House mad with enthusiasm. They
rose to him; they shouted his name eagerly, impetuously.

"Velasco! Viva!--Velasco! Bravo--bravissimo!"

Over the packed Theatre the handkerchiefs waved like a myriad of white
banners. The bravos redoubled. The women tore the flowers from their
girdles to fling on the stage; they lay piled on the white boards about
him, broken and sweet, their perfume filling the air.

The young Violinist bowed, his hand on his heart, smiled and bowed
again. He went out by the little door, and then came back and bowed
and bowed.

The House rose as one man.

"Velasco! Velas--co!" It was deafening.

Suddenly out of the uproar, out of the crowd and the din, from someone,
from somewhere, a bunch of violets fell at his feet. He raised them to
his lips with a smile. "Viva--Velas--co--o!" The clapping redoubled.

About the stems of the violets, twined and intertwined again, was a
twist of paper. His eyes fell for an instant on the blotted words and
then the stage door closed behind him. They were few and almost
illegible.

"_Will you help me--life or death--tonight? Kaya._" The rest was a
blot. He scanned them again more closely and shook the hair from his
eyes.

"Velasco! Velasco--Viva!"

When the young Violinist came forward for the third time, his dark eyes
flashed to the eyes of th