als by presenting them with
maidens.

"And here," said Gambara, sadly, "there is one of those wretched
ballets, which interrupt the thread of the finest musical tragedies! But
Mahomet elevates it once more by his great prophetic scene, which poor
Monsieur Voltaire begins with these words:

"Arabia's time at last has come!

"He is interrupted by a chorus of triumphant Arabs (twelve-eight
time, _accelerando_). The tribes arrive in crowds; the horns and brass
reappear in the orchestra. General rejoicings ensue, all the voices
joining in by degrees, and Mahomet announces polygamy. In the midst of
all this triumph, the woman who has been of such faithful service to
Mahomet sings a magnificent air (in B major). 'And I,' says she, 'am
I no longer loved?' 'We must part. Thou art but a woman, and I am a
Prophet; I may still have slaves but no equal.' Just listen to this duet
(G sharp minor). What anguish! The woman understands the greatness her
hands have built up; she loves Mahomet well enough to sacrifice
herself to his glory; she worships him as a god, without criticising
him,--without murmuring. Poor woman! His first dupe and his first
victim!

"What a subject for the _finale_ (in B major) is her grief, brought out
in such sombre hues against the acclamations of the chorus, and mingling
with Mahomet's tones as he throws his wife aside as a tool of no further
use, still showing her that he can never forget her! What fireworks of
triumph! what a rush of glad and rippling song go up from the two young
voices (first and second soprano) of Ayesha and Hafsa, supported by Ali
and his wife, by Omar and Abubekir! Weep!--rejoice!--Triumph and tears!
Such is life."

Marianna could not control her tears, and Andrea was so deeply moved
that his eyes were moist. The Neapolitan cook was startled by the
magnetic influence of the ideas expressed by Gambara's convulsive
accents.

The composer looked round, saw the group, and smiled.

"At last you understand me!" said he.

No conqueror, led in pomp to the Capitol under the purple beams of
glory, as the crown was placed on his head amid the acclamations of a
nation, ever wore such an expression. The composer's face was radiant,
like that of a holy martyr. No one dispelled the error. A terrible smile
parted Marianna's lips. The Count was appalled by the guilelessness of
this mania.

"Act III," said the enchanted musician, reseating himself at the piano.
"(_Andantino, solo_.) Mahom