g
your own heart strings. . . . Don't move! Don't get up! What is it,
Velasco? You are white as death and your eyes are staring! Listen to
my question and answer it, or not, as you please. This is not an age
of miracles. The birch was not torn from the bank without reason, or
the oak transplanted. Tell me--have you ever loved a woman?"

There was a sudden silence in the Rathskeller. It was almost deserted,
and the waitresses were all in the garden, running forward and backward
under the trees. From outside came the sound of voices and glasses
clinking; and close by, from the ledge, the slow trickle of the beer
through the throats of the gargoyles.

"Look at them!" said Velasco dreamily: "It is the Pilsener that runs
through the dragons' mouths, and the Muenchener through the devils'; a
bizarre fancy that!"

He stooped and struck a match against the table edge, lighting his
cigarette. "These are Russian, Kapellmeister, extra brand! Try one!
I prefer them to Turkish myself." He leaned his head against the
carvings of the partition, and drew the smoke in through his nostrils
slowly, his eyes half closed.

"It is a quarter to eight now," said Ritter, "but there is plenty of
time.--I shouldn't have asked that question perhaps, Velasco. Forgive
me. My own affairs have turned my thoughts too much on that subject."

"Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember." He
passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his
memory.

Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his
hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the
wood with his fingers.

"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco. I have never spoken of it to any
one; but somehow to-night it would be a relief to talk. Brondi was
staying at my house; he was the Tristan. One night he gave out he was
ill, and some one else took the part. When I returned from the opera,
he was gone and she was gone, and the house was dark and deserted."

Ritter was silent for a moment.

"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco, and I feel as if it were yesterday."

The Violinist shaded his eyes from the light as if it hurt him: "When
you came back," he said, "When you found out--what was it you felt,
love or hate?"

The Kapellmeister made a swift, repelling gesture as if some reptile
had touched him: "Love!" he cried, "Hate! Velasco--man, there is many
a sin at my door; I am far from a saint heaven knows