g. "Siegfried has wounded him," she whispered,--"in a moment
the sword will have reached his heart. . . . Ah, now--it has struck
him--he is dying! As soon as he is dead! As soon as he is--dead."

The orchestra was playing passionately, and she knew every note; the
bird motive came nearer and nearer. Already her prototype was being
prepared in the flies, and the wires made ready. She clung to the
rope, swinging. . . . Ah, how good the Kapellmeister had been to her;
how good! It was his very interest in her that had made him severe,
she knew that. She must sing her best, and not wound him by failure.

The motive came nearer.

Siegfried was standing just below her now. She took a deep breath and
her lips parted. He was peering up at her, searching through the
leaves, and the bird on its wire fluttered across the stage. . . . She
was singing. The notes, high and pure, poured out of her throat. The
bird fluttered past.

[Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"]

She swayed, with her head leaning back against the ropes, and sang--and
sang. Her throat was like a tunnel and her voice was like a stream
running through it, clear and glorious. Siegfried looked up and
started. The orchestra played on.

"Has the Fraeulein gone home?"

"No," said Marta, yawning, "She is in one of the dressing-rooms. I
begged her to come, but she wouldn't."

The Kapellmeister laid his hand on her shoulder carelessly: "If you are
sleepy," he said, "go back to the mill; I will bring her myself
presently. The House is dark now, and the people are going." He gave
a curt nod, dismissing the old woman, and strode on through the wings.

One person after another stopped him: "Ha, Kapellmeister, where did
that nightingale hail from?"

"I snared it for you, Siegfried; were you satisfied?"

"Ach, mein Gott! I thought I was back on the Riviera, and it was
moon-light.-- Snare me another Bruennhilde, can't you?" The great
tenor laughed and put his finger to his lips: "Singing with the Lehmann
spoils one," he said, "Bah--! It was frightful to-night! She grows
always worse. Would the bird were a goddess instead." He waved his
hand: "Good-night!"

"Good-night," said the Kapellmeister, hurrying on.

"Ritter--hey! Stop a moment! What has come over the Neumann?"

"Nothing, Jacobs--nothing! She is dead."

Mime straightened his back that was stiff from much crouching:
"Ausgeworfen?"

"Ja wohl."

"Then who is the lark?"