uld see the actor draw
towards him a violin case, and he silently drew forth his own instrument
to be in readiness. Whilst he waited and watched, Carl's stealthy
footstep sounded behind him.

'You will see her in a minute or two,' whispered Carl. 'I will touch you
once, when you shall make ready, and once when you shall begin.'

For half a minute or nearly, everything was still on the stage and in
the house. Then the player's voice, passionate and low, broke again upon
the silence, and in a second or two Carl touched Christopher upon
the shoulder. There was a curiously _crisp_ feeling in the-composer's
nerves, and he was a little excited. He tucked his violin under his
chin, and stood prepared. Into the definite band of moonlight which
crossed the stage glided suddenly a white figure.

'Now,' whispered Carl, and touched the musician on the shoulder, and
straight from the violin soared a voice, not soft and low, but clear and
loud, and the air was 'Cruel Barbara Allen.' Carl fell back a step or
two in his amazement. The white figure on the stage turned round, and
for a moment peered into the darkness of the flies--then glided on
again. The air once played, the composer cast his violin upon the stage
beneath his feet and trampled it, hurled the bow from him, and with one
cry, eloquent of agony and rage, turned and dashed past his companion,
and, tumbling through the dark and unaccustomed ways, reached the
street. Carl followed him and caught him up.

'What is it, Stretton? What is the matter?' he cried, and seized his
friend by the arm. Christopher answered nothing, but hurried on like one
distracted. 'He's mad,' said Carl within himself--'quite mad.'

They came together to their chambers, and Christopher sank into
an arm-chair and moaned, unconscious of Carl's presence, 'Barbara!
Barbara!'

'It is madness,' said Carl, tossing his hands tempestuously towards
the ceiling, 'mere midsummer madness. Poor fellow! Stretton! Stretton!
Listen to me! What is it? Don't you know me?'

For Christopher glared at him like one who had no knowledge of him, and
then again hid his face within his hands.

'What on earth made you play that tune?' cried Carl.

'She was there, man! She was there!' groaned Christopher, rising and
pacing the room with unequal steps.

'Who was there?' said Carl, almost as wildly.

'Barbara,' groaned Christopher again, 'Mademoiselle Helene is Barbara
Allen.'

'"Angels and ministers of grace defend u