surd. I
tell you I have no wife."

She stretched out her hands to him: "You are a Pole, a Pole!" Her
voice rose passionately. "Surely you have suffered; you hate Russia,
this cruel, wicked, tyrannous government. Your sympathy is with us,
the people, the Liberals, who are trying--oh, I tell you--I must go, at
once! After tomorrow it is death, don't you understand,--death? What
is it to you, the matter of another passport? You are Velasco?--Every
one knows that name, every one. Your wife goes with you to Germany.
Oh, take me--take me--I beseech you."

The Violinist stared down at the hooded face. Her voice was tense and
vibrating like the tones of an instrument. It moved him strangely. He
felt a curious numbness in his throat and a wave passed over him like a
chill. She went on, her hands wrung together under the cloak:

"It isn't much I ask. The journey together--at the frontier we
part--part forever. The marriage, oh listen--that is nothing, a
ceremony, a farce, just a certificate to show the police--the police--"

Her voice died away in a whisper, broken, panting. She fell back
against the door, bracing herself against it, gazing up into his eyes.

Velasco stood motionless for a moment; then he turned on his heel and
strode over to the fire-place, staring down into the coals. The sight
of that bent and shrinking figure, a woman, old and feeble, trembling
like a creature hunted, unmanned him.

"I can't do it," he said slowly, "Don't ask me. I am a musician. I
have no interest in politics. There is too much risk. I can't,
Madame, I can't."

He felt her coming towards him. The flutter of her cloak, it touched
him, and her step was light, like a bird limping.

"You read it?" she whispered, "I saw you at the Mariinski; and
there--there are the violets on the table, by the violin. Have you
forgotten?"

Velasco started: "Who are you?" he exclaimed. "Not Kaya!" He wheeled
around and faced her savagely: "You Kaya, never! Was it you who threw
the violets--you?"

His dark eyes measured the shrinking form, bent and crippled, shrouded;
and he cried out in his disappointment like a peevish boy: "I thought
it was she--she! Kaya was young, fair, her face was like a flower; her
hair was like gold; her lips were parted, arched and sweet; her
eyes--You, you are not Kaya!--Never!"

His voice was angry and full of scorn: "It was all a dream, a mistake.
Go--out of my sight; begone! I'll have nothing