and his
mouth wide open.

The people were half hysterical from the past danger, and when they
saw, and realised, they did not wait for the end of the air, but sent
up such a shout of applause as had never been heard in the Opera
before and may not be heard there again.

Instinctively the Primadonna sang the last bars, though no one heard
her in the din, unless it was Schreiermeyer, who stood near her. When
she had finished at last he ran up to her and threw both his arms
round her in a paroxysm of gratitude, regardless of her powder and
chalk, which came off upon his coat and yellow beard in patches of
white as he kissed her on both cheeks, calling her by every endearing
name that occurred to his polyglot memory, from Sweetheart in English
to Little Cabbage in French, till Cordova laughed and pushed him away,
and made a tremendous courtesy to the audience.

Just then a man in a blue jacket and gilt buttons entered from the
left of the stage and whispered a few words into Schreiermeyer's ear.
The manager looked grave at once, nodded and came forward to the
prompter's box. The man had brought news of the accident, he said;
a quantity of dynamite which was to have been used in subterranean
blasting had exploded and had done great damage, no one yet knew how
great. It was probable that many persons had been killed.

But for this news, Cordova would have had one of those ovations which
rarely fall to the lot of any but famous singers, for there was not a
man or woman in the theatre who had not felt that she had averted a
catastrophe and saved scores of lives. As it was, several women had
been slightly hurt and at least fifty had fainted. Every one was
anxious to help them now, most of all the very people who had hurt
them.

But the news of an accident in the city emptied the house in a few
minutes; even now that the lights were up the anxiety to get out
to the street and to know more of the truth was great enough to be
dangerous, and the strong crowd heaved and surged again and pushed
through the many doors with little thought for the weak or for any who
had been injured in the first panic.

But in the meantime Cordova had reached her dressing-room, supported
by the enthusiastic Schreiermeyer on one side, and by the equally
enthusiastic tenor on the other, while the singular family party
assembled in the last act of _Lucia di Lammermoor_ brought up the rear
with many expressions of admiration and sympathy.

As a ma