of her footsteps crossing the stage, ascending the
stair-case; and he walked backwards and forwards, forwards and
backwards, in and out among the rocks and the trees. His forehead was
scarred with lines, and his shoulders were bent. The look of the
victorious General about him had changed into the look of one who has
met the enemy face to face, and has fought with his strength and his
might, and been beaten, with his forces slain and a bullet in his
breast.

His eyes were fierce and his face set, his feet stumbled; he was white
as death and weary. He heard her coming back and he walked on,
backwards and forwards, without looking or heeding.

"Have you your cloak?"

"Yes."

"An umbrella?"

"No."

"It is raining. Don't you hear it, and the thunder in the distance?
The storm has broken. Come, we will take a cab." He strode across the
stage and down the staircase; she following. He nodded to the watchman:

"Still rehearsing," he said shortly, "Sorry to keep you up. Whistle,
will you, for a Droschke? Gott! The rain is terrific; hear it! Come."

There was the sound of wheels, of horses' hoofs.

He went forward and opened the door of the Droschke, and Kaya crept in.

She was no longer the Bruennhilde; she was a little figure, slight and
pale, and wrapped in a cloak; and she sat in the corner against the
cushions, staring out at the rain, quivering at the thunder crashes.

Ritter stepped in behind her and closed the door. "Nonnen-Muehle!" he
cried, "and drive fast. We are chilled to the bone! The storm grows
worse; it is devilish late!" He flung himself back in the opposite
corner, and the Droschke rolled on.

It was still in the carriage. From outside came the sound of the rain
falling, and the hoofs of the horses trotting. Kaya shut her eyes.
The rhythmical sound caught her senses. She was in St. Petersburg
again, and driving in the darkness through the night and the storm; and
Velasco was beside her--Velasco! They were driving to the church to
be--married.

"Don't do that again," cried the Kapellmeister fiercely, "I can't bear
it."

"W--what?"

"You moaned."

Kaya crept closer into the corner, and clasped the cloak to her breast
and throat.

"It is like seeing a bird with a shot in its breast--in torture," he
said, "And when you sing, it is like a swan song. Your soul is on your
lips, crying out, imploring.--Kaya!"

He bent over the shrinking form in the corner: "I was brutal to y