ued the Violinist, "it is as if one had had an
illness. To-night I am weary--Bozhe moi! My body is numb, I can
scarcely lift my feet, or my hands; only my nerves are alive, and they
are like electric wires scintillating, jumping. The liquid runs
through my veins like fire! Is that a--?"

"Bewahre--bewahre! You throw yourself into your playing headlong, body
and soul. It wrecks one mentally and physically to listen; how much
more then to play! If you were like others, Velasco, you would drink
yourself to drowsiness and drown those sensations; or else you would
seek pleasure, distraction. When Genius has been with you, guiding
your brain and your fingers, and you are left suddenly with an empty
void, what else can you expect but reaction, nausea of life and of art?
Bewahre, man! That is no madness! It is sanity--normal conditions
returning. You are mad when the Genius is with you, you are mad when
you play; but now--now you are sane; you are like other men, Velasco,
and you don't recognize yourself!"

The Kapellmeister laughed, drawing whiffs from his cigar.

Velasco uncovered his eyes: "You don't understand," he said slowly: "I
see things--I have illusions! It is something that comes and dances
before me as I play, the same thing always. I saw it to-night."

"What sort of thing?"

Velasco stared suddenly at the opposite wall. "What is that painting
there, Ritter?"

"The one over the piano? I bought it in St. Petersburg years ago, when
I was touring: a copy of the Rembrandt in the 'Hermitage.' Don't you
know it?"

"What is it?"

"The Knight with the Golden Helmet' I call it; but it is really a
'Pallas Athene.'"

"The Knight--the Knight with the Golden Helmet! That is no knight--it
is the head of a woman, a girl; look at the oval of the cheek, the
lips, the eyes! That is no knight, nor is it a 'Pallas Athene'!-- My
God! I am going mad, I tell you! Wherever I look, I see it before
me--an illusion, a trick of the senses! It is madness!"

Velasco sprang to his feet with a cry. "I can't bear it," he cried,
"open the door! Damn you, Ritter, get out of the way!"

Velasco sprang forward, struggling for a moment with the Kapellmeister,
and then Ritter fell back. The clutch on his shoulder was like iron.
He fell back, and the door slammed.

"Potztausend!" he cried, "What is there in my painting to start him
like that? These musicians have nerves like live wires! It is true
what he said--he