k half fierce, half pitying
came in his face. He bent over her until his eyes were close to hers,
and he forced her to look at him:

"What is that word you say? When you were raving, you repeated it
again and again: 'Velasco--Velasco.' There is a violinist by that
name, a musician."

"A--musician!" stammered Kaya. She was staring at him with eyes
wide-open and frightened.

"His name is Velasco."

"Ve--las--co?"

The syllables came through her lips like a breath. "No--no!" she cried
suddenly, hoarsely, "I don't know him! I--I never saw him!"

She struggled with the lie bravely, turning white to the lips and
gazing. "It was some one I knew in Russia; some one I--I loved." She
sat up suddenly and wrung her hands together: "You don't believe me?"

"No," said the Kapellmeister, "You can't lie with eyes like that."

Kaya gazed at him desperately: "Don't tell him," she breathed,
"Ah--don't let him know--I implore you!"

Ritter gave a sharp exclamation and caught the little figure in his
arms. "She has fainted!" he cried, "Potztausend, what a brute I was!"
He laid her back on the pillow and stood staring down at her, breathing
heavily and clenching his hands.

"If I were Velasco!" he muttered, "Ah Gott--I am mad! Marta--Marta!"

CHAPTER XVIII

The day was very warm and sultry, and the visitors, who flocked to
Ehrestadt for the opera season, fanned themselves resignedly as they
sat in the shaded gardens, drinking beer and liqueurs, and gossiping
about the singers. The performance of 'Siegfried' was to be given that
night for the second time, and they discussed it together.

"The tenor--ah, what a voice he had, and what acting, but
Bruennhilde--bah!" They shook their heads. "The Schultz was growing
old, and her voice was thin in the upper register; it struck against
the roof of her mouth when she forced it, and sounded like tin. In the
love-scene, when Bruennhilde wakes from her sleep--Tschut! What a pity
a singer should ever grow old; and a still greater pity--a Jammerschade
that she should go on singing!"

"The Conductor was in despair, and so were the Directors; but the
contract was signed, it was too late. Ach bewahre, poor Ritter! He
was in such a pique," they said, "der Arme! The bird--that was poor
too, shrill and cheap! Die Neumann, who was she? Someone out of the
chorus perhaps. But the Mime was splendid."

And then they went back to the great Siegfried again and praised
him