ng to flare up about; I was dreaming, I tell you!
What do you know of such things yourself? Ugh! Leave them alone,
child; leave all ugly things alone! Come back, or the rats will run
over you."

"It is terrible the things that happen," whispered the girl. She was
on her knees and she was pushing him away with her hands. "I never
knew until lately, but now--now I have met the Revolutionists; they
have talked to me, they have told me. They are splendid men. Some of
them are extreme, so am I. I hate the Tsar. I loathe him; I loathe
them all! I would kill them all if I could."

She was trembling violently: "It is true that I have--" And then she
began sobbing, struggling with Velasco as he drew her to him.

"Be still," he said, "Hush! Your voice was like a trumpet then. You
are not like a girl at all; you are like a soldier fighting for his
flag. What are you talking about? Hush! Let me wrap you again. The
rats are getting worse! Creep closer and rest on my arm. The Tsar is
the little Father; we must respect him and speak low about him always."

The girl caught her breath, sinking back on his shoulder, wrapped in
his fur. She tried to resist him, but his arm was strong and encircled
her, his hand clasped her own; it was supple and the wrist was like a
hinge. There was a power, an electric force in his touch, a
magnetism--she shut her eyes, yielding to it. She was like a violin
after all; if he chose to play on her with his bow! Ah--she quivered.

"Monsieur," she said low, "You don't understand. You are a Pole and
you care nothing for Poland; how could you understand? And yet you
play--my God, how you play, as if you had cared and suffered more than
any one in the whole wide world. Have you ever suffered?"

"No," said Velasco, "What should there be to make me suffer? Not until
to-night!--Ugh, this is torture, horrible!"

"Have you ever twisted and writhed in an agony of mind that was like
madness because--"

"Of course," said Velasco, "After my concerts I am always like that.
It is--" He shuddered. "A black depression creeps over one. Bozhe
moi! It is awful! Is that what you mean?"

"No," she said, "that is not what I meant. Tell me, Monsieur, have you
ever cared for any one?"

Velasco stretched his cramped limbs and yawned. "Never, any one
particularly," he said, "that I can think of. I used to like my old
master in Warsaw; and I have friends; good gracious! All over Russia
an