s no other musician in the House, sir, who could do it. The
Kapellmeister is in great distress. The minutes are passing."

"Tell him I will come," said Velasco, "I will come." He rose and
followed the usher from the loggia.

When the curtain went up for the third Act, a young, slender figure
appeared in the orchestra pit, mounting the platform; only his head
with the dark hair falling, the arm raised, and the baton, were
visible. The House was in darkness; a hush had crept over it.

The Act was progressing.

Already the smoke was in wreaths about the couch of Bruennhilde, hiding
it, enveloping the stage in a grey, misty veil. Flames flashed up here
and there, licking in tongues of fire about the rocks and the trees.
As they rose and fell and the smoke grew denser, the music became more
vivid, intense, full of strange running melodies, until the violins
were to the ear as the flames to the eye. The stage was a billow of
smoke curling, and the sound of the orchestra was as fire, crackling,
leaping.

The smoke grew denser like a thick, grey fog, rolling in wreaths. The
music was a riot of tones sparkling, and the hearts of the audience
beat fast to the rhythm.

Suddenly through the veil, dim, indistinct, showed the couch of
Bruennhilde, shrouded in the billows and puffs of the smoke; the goddess
herself stretched lifeless, asleep; and the form of Siegfried, breaking
through the ring of the fire, leaping forward, the sword in his hand.
He sprang to the couch, gazing down at the sleeping Walkuere, straight
and still, covered with the shimmering steel of the buckler, the spear
by her side and the helmet on her head, motionless, glittering in the
flare of the flames. "Bruennhilde--Bruennhilde!"

Siegfried lifted his voice and sang to her--he had taken the shield
from her now and was bending lower, clasping his hands as if in ecstasy.

The House was like a black pit, silent, without movement or rustle,
hanging on the notes, watching the glittering, prostrate form and
Siegfried stooping. . . . Presently she stirred. The smoke had grown
lighter, more vapoury, translucent. Her form stirred slowly, dreamily,
raising itself from the couch. The magic was broken; the goddess was
aroused at last.

Bruennhilde opened her eyes--and half kneeling, half reclining, she
stared about her, dazed, half conscious. Siegfried hung over her. The
flames, the smoke were dying away. She seemed in a trance; and then,
as she ga