ks. A hum of excitement was over the House, and
one name was on every lip: "Velasco!"--the Polish violinist, the
virtuoso, the artist, whose fame had spread over all Europe.

In Berlin he had had a furore; in Dresden the orchestra had carried him
on their shoulders, shouting and hurrahing; in Leipzig, even Leipzig,
where the critics are cold, and they have been fed music from their
cradles, the glory of him had taken them all by storm.

"Velasco!"

The orchestra stood quietly now, expectant, each behind his desk. A
hush crept over the House. The people leaned forward watching. It was
past the hour.

Kaya stood wrapped in her cloak, leaning against the wall. Her head
was bare, and her hair was like a boy's, curling in rings and shining
in the light. Her eyes were fixed on the little door at the end of the
stage. Every time it opened slightly she started, and her heart gave a
throb. The air grew heavier.

When it finally opened, it was Ritter who came out. He strode hastily
across the Stage, nodding shortly as if aware that the ripple of
applause was not for him; then he took his place on the Conductor's
stand with his back to the House, and waited, the baton between his
fingers. The door opened again.

Kaya covered her eyes for a moment, and a little thrill went through
her veins. She swayed and leaned heavily against the wall.

God! It was seven months and a day since that night in the inn. She
was in his arms again, and he was bending over her, whispering
hoarsely, his voice full of repressed anger and emotion:

"Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms! The gods only know why you
said it, but it isn't the truth! You love me--say you love me; say it,
Kaya! Let me hear you, my beloved!"

He was pressing his lips to hers.

"Take away your lips--Velasco!"

Then she recovered herself with a start, and took her hand from her
eyes.

The door was ajar. Velasco was coming through it carelessly,
gracefully, with his violin under his arm; and as he came, he bowed
with a half smile on his lips, tossing his hair from his brow.

The audience was nothing to him; they were mere puppets, and as they
shouted and clapped, welcoming him with their lips and their hands, he
bowed again, slightly, indifferently, and laid the Stradivarius to his
shoulder, caressing the bow with his fingers.

Ritter struck the desk sharply with his baton and the orchestra began
to play, drowning the applause; and it ceased grad