ually, dying away
into silence.

Then Velasco raised his bow.

There was a hush, a stillness in the air, and he drew it over the
strings--one tone, deep and pure with a rainbow of colours, shading
from fortissimo, filling the House, to the faintest piano--pianissimo,
delicate, elusive; breathing it out, and pressing on the string with
his finger until it penetrated the air like an echo, and the bow was
still drawing slowly, quiveringly.

He swayed as he played, laying his cheek to the violin; the waves of
dark hair falling over his brows. His fingers danced over the strings,
and his bow began to leap and sparkle. The audience listened
spellbound, without a whisper or movement. The orchestra accompanied,
but the sound of the violins in unison was as nothing to the single cry
of the Stradivarius.

It sang and soared, it was deep and soft; it was like the sighing of
the wind through the forest, and the tones were like a voice. From his
instrument, his bow, his fingers, himself, went out a strange, mesmeric
influence that seemed to stretch over the House, the audience, bending
it, forcing it to his will; compelling it to his mood.

As he played on and on, the influence grew stronger, more pervading,
until his personality was as a giant and the audience pigmies at his
feet, sobbing as his Stradivarius sobbed; laughing when it laughed;
crying out with joy, or with pain, with frenzy or delight, as his bow
rent the strings. He scarcely heeded them. His eyes were closed and
he rocked the violin in his arms, swaying as in a trance.

Kaya crouched against the wall; and as she listened, she gazed until it
seemed as if her eyes were blinded, and she could no longer make out
the slim lines of his figure, the dark head, and the bow leaping.

The tones struck against her brain with a thrill of concussion like
hail against a roof. It was as if he were calling to her, pleading
with her, embracing her.

She stretched out her arms to him and the tears ran down her face.
"Velasco!" she murmured, "Velasco--come back! Put your arms around me!
Don't look at me like that! I love you--come back!"

But no sound left her throat, and the cloak pinioned her arms. She was
crouching against the wall, and gazing and trembling: "Velasco--!"

How different he was! When he had played at the Mariinski, and she had
tossed the violets from her loggia, he was a boy, a virtuoso. Life and
fame were before him; and he sprang out on the st