re spies, people
listening; no one can tell. Put your lips to my ear. Why were we
arrested, do you know? What have you done?--Ah, these rats! Make a
noise with your feet; scuffle as I do, that will drive them away.--"

"I--I can't tell you," whispered the girl, "No--it was nothing, don't
ask me. You will know in the morning."

"Tell me now," said Velasco, "When we talk, the darkness seems less,
not so terrible. I like to feel you breathing against me; your form is
so little and light. Don't move! Put your fingers in mine now and
tell me.--Why won't you tell me?--Speak louder."

The girl trembled and he put his arm closer about her.

"Are you afraid of me?" he said, "My tempers are nothing; they are like
a gust and it is over. I didn't mean what I said. When I think of my
violin, that it is lost, gone forever perhaps, that my hands are so
numb and so stiff, it makes me frantic. I feel as if I should go mad
for a moment, locked in here; and I never could bear the dark, never;
not when I was a child. I see things; sounds ring in my ears. I want
to cry out, and storm, and fling myself against the walls; do you? It
is my nature, my temperament, I was always like that. My nerves are on
fire. Stay by me. When I feel your hand--Kaya, your hair is like
silk. Don't move. What was it you did?"

"Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right. I could not help
myself, I could not. I had taken the oath. I was only the instrument."

"The what--?" said Velasco. "If you were an instrument I should take
you in my arms and play on you. The strings would be the strands of
your hair and my bow would caress them. The tones would be thrilling
and soft like your voice; your cheek would be the arch on which my
cheek rests. I would shut my eyes and play on you, and you would
answer me, and we would sway together, your heart on my breast.--Ah!
Where am I? Forgive me, I thought for a moment--Don't be frightened, I
thought you were my Stradivarius. I was dreaming.--What were you
saying? An instrument--I don't understand."

"Let me go," cried the girl, "don't hold me! Take your cloak from my
shoulders. You wouldn't understand if I did tell you. You are an
artist and understand nothing but your art. What do you know of the
conditions we are struggling against, the suffering, the horrible
suffering of our country?"

"Don't be angry," said Velasco, "I talk to my violin sometimes like
that. There was nothi