She put her hand to her breast.  "Why aren't you gone?  Go now,
to-night.  Leave me here.  As soon as it is light I shall be missed,
and then--"  She shuddered and her hand trembled in his, like a bird
that is caught, soft and quivering.

Velasco looked at her again and then he looked away at the candle: "I
won't leave you," he said, "and the railroad is useless.  They would
track us at once.  When I put this on--"  He began smoothing the scarf.
"I meant to follow you through the snow and the cold to the mines, like
a beggar musician."

He laughed: "You didn't know me yourself, you see?  I was safe."

"Monsieur Velasco, you were coming to me?  Ah, but they told you a lie!
I--"  She breathed a few words to him softly.

"They would have--"

She nodded.

"When?"

"To-morrow at daybreak."

"In spite of Mezkarpin?"

She broke down and buried her face in her hands.

Velasco began to pace the room slowly.  "If you had a costume like
mine," he said, "If your hair were cut--"  Then he brightened suddenly
and ran forward to the girl, snatching her hands from her eyes,
dragging her to her feet.

"What a fool I was!" he cried, "What an idiot!  Quick, Kaya!  My chum
is an artist; he is off now in Sicily, painting the rocks, and the sea,
and the peasants; but his things are all there in his room next to
mine, just duds for his models you know.  Go--go!  Put on one like
mine.  You shall be a boy.  We will be boys together, gypsies, and play
for our living.  We will walk to the frontier, Kaya, together."

The two stared at one another for a moment.  He was pushing her gently
towards the curtain.  "Quick!" he whispered, "Be quick!"  They both
listened for a moment.

Then he pushed her inside and dragged down the curtain: "Now, I must
pack," he cried, "Now I must prepare to meet Galitsin, the round-eyed
ox!  Ha ha!--He will wait until he is stiff, and then he will fly back
here in a rage.  Good God, we must hurry!"  He began opening and
shutting the drawers, taking out money and jewels from one, articles of
apparel from another.

"No collars, no neck-ties!" he said to himself, "How simple to be a
gypsey!  A knapsack will hold all for her and for me.--Kaya!--Bózhe
moi!"

The curtain was drawn back and in the doorway stood a boy.

CHAPTER IX

The two gypsies gazed at one another in silence.

The small, picturesque figure in the doorway wore velveteen trousers of
green, old and faded, a black jacket rusty, with the sleeves patched,
and a scarlet sash tied loosely about the waist.  On the back of her
cropped yellow curls was a velveteen cap, rakishly tipped, and she
stood debonair beneath the folds of the curtain with a laugh on her
lips.

"Mon Dieu!" she cried, "How you stare, Monsieur!  Will I do?  What sort
of a boy do I make; all right?  Are you satisfied, sir?"

She made a little rush forward, eluding Velasco, and stopped before the
mirror with her hands boyishly deep in her pockets, glancing back over
her shoulder and pirouetting slowly backwards and forwards.

"The hair looks a little rough!" she exclaimed, "I cut it with a pair
of shears, or perhaps it was a razor, who knows!  Ma foi!  It is not
like a girl's at all, so short!  What my maid would say!  You would
never take me for a Countess now, would you--would you?"  She patted
her curls and pulled down her jacket in front, turning first to one
side, then to the other.  "What a nice pair of gypsies we make, sir,
eh?  Come and look at yourself.  You are taller than I, and bigger, and
you have such shoulders, heavens!  Mine are not half the size.  You
mustn't bully me, you know, not if I am a boy.  You took the best
jacket, the biggest, and look what I have--such a little one, only
patches and rags!  And see what boots!"

She held out one slim, small foot in a peasant's boot and inspected it,
pointing to the sole with little exclamations of horror.  "I took the
only ones I could find, and see--"  Then she looked at him coaxingly
with her eyes half veiled by her lashes, sideways, as if afraid of his
gaze.

"Do I make a nice boy, Monsieur, tell me?  Am I just like a gypsey, the
real ones?  Is it right, do you think?"  She faltered.

Velasco took a step forward and looked down at the reflection in the
mirror, the profile averted, the flush on her cheek, the curls on her
brow, the boyish swagger and the hands in the pockets, the cap on the
back of the tilted head, the laughing eyes, half veiled.  He towered
above her, gazing.  And presently her eyes crept up to his under the
lashes and they met in the mirror.  She drew slowly away.

"How little you are!" he cried, "You never seemed so little before; in
a cloak, in a veil, you were tall.  And now, stand still, let me
measure.  Your cap just reaches my shoulder.  Kaya--"

She gave a gay little laugh and held her back against his.  "How you
cheat!" she cried, "No--your heels on the floor, sir--there, now!  Back
to back, can you see in the mirror?  Where do I come?"

The two stood motionless for a moment, their shoulders touching,
peering eagerly sideways into the glass.

"Kaya, you are standing on tiptoe!"

"No--it is you."

"Kaya!  You rogue!"

She gave a little cry, laughing out like a child caught in mischief,
springing away.  "I must practise being a boy," she exclaimed, "What is
it you do?  It is so different from being a Countess.  One feels so
free.  No heels, no train, no veil!  When one is used to the boots it
must be heaven.  If my cap would only stay on!"

She began to roam over the room, taking boyish strides, puckering her
lips in a whistle; her thumbs in her vest and her head thrown back.
"There, now, that is it; I feel better already, quite like a man.  It
is charming, Monsieur; a little more practice--"

Velasco was following her about with the cap in his hands.  "Step
softly, Kaya, step softly," he said, "Stand still.  Let me put it on
for you."

"No--no, toss it over."

With a little spring the girl swung herself on the table edge,
balancing and swinging her feet; looking up at him from under her
lashes and laughing.

"Shall I make a good comrade, Monsieur Velasco?  What do you think?"

He leaned over the table towards her.  His eyes were bright and eager,
searching her face, the dimples that came and went in her cheeks, her
soft, white throat, bare under the collarless jacket; the lips parted,
and red, and arched; the rings of her hair, shining like gold.

"Kaya," he whispered hoarsely, "I never saw you like this before.  My
little comrade, my friend, my--  We will tramp together, you and I--all
the way to the frontier.  They will never suspect us, never!  The
Stradivarius shall earn our bread, and if you are ill, or weary, I will
carry you in my arms.  In the market-places I will play for the
peasants to dance, and you--you, Kaya--ah, what will you do?"

He laughed softly to himself and began teasing her, half gayly, half
tenderly, with his face close to hers, the sleeve of his jacket
brushing her arm.

"What will you do, Kaya?  Look at me!  Your cheek is red like a rose;
your eyes are like stars.  Don't turn them away.  Lift the fringe of
those lashes and look at me, Kaya.  Will you pass the cap for the
pennies?--You will have to doff it because you are a boy; and you must
do something because you are a gypsey.  Will you pass the cap for the
peasants to pay?"

He held the velveteen cap in his hands, playing with it, caressing it,
watching her.  "Look at me, Kaya!"

She flushed and drew back, her heart beating in little throbs under the
vest.  Suddenly she turned and looked at him squarely.  It was strange,
whenever their eyes met, like a thrill, a shock, an ecstasy; and then a
slow returning to consciousness as after a blow.

All at once, she drooped her lashes and began to trill, softly,
faintly, like a bird, the tones clear, and sweet, and high; and as she
sang, she glanced at him under her lashes, with her head on one side.
The voice pulsed and grew in her throat, swelling out; then she
softened it quickly with a look over her shoulder, half fearfully, and
again it soared to a high note, trilling, lingering and dropping at
last.

Her mouth scarcely opened.  The sound seemed to come through the arch
of her lips, every note pure, and sweet, and soft like a breath.
Velasco bent over entranced.

"How you sing!" he cried, "Like some beautiful bird!  In Italy, on the
shores of the lakes, I have heard the nightingales sing like that; but
never a woman.  The timbre is crystal and pure, like clear, running
water.  When you soar to the heights, it is like a lark flying; and
when you drop into alt, it is a tone that forces the tears to one's
eyes, so pathetic and strange.  Who taught you, Kaya?  Who taught you
to sing like that?  Or were you born so with a voice alive in your
throat; you had only to open it and let it come out?"

She shook her head, swinging her feet, trying to laugh.

"It is so small," she said wistfully.  "You are a musician, Monsieur
Velasco, and I--I know nothing of music.  No--I will pass the cap for
pennies.  Give it to me.  Is it getting late, must we go?"

She took the cap and put it on her head, on the back of her curls,
avoiding his eyes.  "Will that do for a gypsey?  Is it
straight--Velasco?"  She said the name quite low and breathed
hurriedly, with a flush on her cheeks.

He was still staring at her, but he said nothing; he made no motion and
she drew away from him a little frightened.

"You are like a violin," he murmured, "I told you you were like a
violin.  You are all music, as I am music.  We will make music
together--Kaya.  Sing for me again, just open your lips and
breathe--once more!  Let me hear you trill?"

"I can't," said the girl.  "I am faint, Velasco.  When I look at you
now there is a mist before my eyes.  The room sways."  She put out her
hands suddenly, as if to steady herself.

Velasco started back: "Good heavens, Kaya, what is the matter?  The
colour has gone from your cheeks; there are shadows under your eyes,
deep and heavy as though they were painted.  Don't faint, will you?
Don't!  I shouldn't know what under heaven to do!"

The girl slipped down from the table and, staggering a little, threw
herself into the chair by the fire-place.  "Get me some food, Velasco;
some bread, some wine.  In a moment it will pass!"  She began laughing
again immediately.  "Don't be frightened.  It is you who are pale, not
I.  Just a morsel to eat--Velasco.  Since last night I have eaten
nothing.  You forget how hungry a boy can be!  Is there time?"

Velasco had snatched the red wine from the table and was pouring it out
in a glass, holding it to her lips.

"Drink, Kaya, drink--and here are biscuits, shall I break them for you?
Don't speak.  Shut your eyes, and drink, and eat.  I will feed you."

He hovered over her with little exclamations of pity and self-reproach.

"Why didn't I see at once you were starving!  Poor child, poor little
one!  You seemed so gay, dancing about; your cheeks were so red and
now--Ah no, it is better--the colour is coming back slowly.  The wine
brings a flush."

The girl lay back with her eyes closed, sipping the wine from the glass
as he held it.  "Is there plenty of time, Velasco?" she said faintly.

He looked at the hands of the malachite clock on the mantel.  They
pointed to ten and presently it began to strike.

"Yes--yes." he whispered, "Lie still.  Let me feed you.  We will go
presently."

"What was that on the stairway?" she said, "Was it a noise?--I thought
I heard something."

She opened her eyes and started up; and with the sudden movement, the
glass in her hand tipped and spilled over.  "It is nothing," she said,
"It fell on my hand.  I will wipe it away."

Velasco laughed.  "Your hand!" he cried, "Your hand is a rose leaf, so
soft and so white.  The wine has stained it with a blotch.  How
strange!  It is red, it is crimson--a spot like blood."

The girl blanched suddenly and fell back with a cry.

"Not blood, Velasco!  Wipe it off!  Take it away!  Not blood!  Oh, take
it away!"

Her eyes stared down at the blotch on her hand.  They were frightened,
dilated, and her whole body quivered in the chair.  "Velasco--take it
away!"

He put down the glass and took the small, white hand in his own,
brushing it gently with the sleeve of his jacket.  "There now," he
said, "it is gone.  It was only a drop of wine.  Hush--hush!  See,
there is no blood, Kaya, I never meant there was blood.  Don't scream
again!"

"It's the Cross!" she cried, "the curse of the Black Cross!  Ah,
go--leave me!  I am a murderess!  I shot him, Velasco, I shot him!  I
fulfilled the vow, the oath of the order.  But now--oh God!  I am
cursed!  Not blood--not blood!"

She was struggling to her feet.

"_Without weakness, without hesitation, or mercy_.  I did it!
Velasco--I did it!"

She fell back into the chair again, sobbing, murmuring to herself.
"Not blood--no--not blood!"

"That is over and past," said Velasco, "Don't think of it, Kaya.  Be a
boy, a man, not weak like a woman.  Eat the rest of the bread."

The girl took the bread from his hand.

"Finish the wine."

He held the glass to her lips until she had drained it; and then she
began to laugh a little unsteadily.

"You are right," she said, "a boy doesn't--weep.  I must be strong, a
good comrade."  She dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up at him
pathetically, smiling with lips that still quivered.  "It is over," she
said, "I am--I have--you know; but it is over!  I will forget it.
Sometimes I can forget it if I try; then I shut my eyes at night and I
see him before me, on his face with his arms outstretched--still and
strange.  The blood is trickling a stream on the floor!  I hear the
shot--I--"

"Be still, Kaya, hush!  Don't speak of it; forget it!  Hush!"

She began to laugh again: "See, I am your comrade, light-hearted and
gay as a gypsey should be.  Already--I have forgotten!  What a couple
of tramps we are, you and I!  Just look at your boots!"

"And your faded old jacket!"

"And your scarf, Velasco!"

"And your velveteen cap!"

They laughed out together, and then they stopped suddenly and listened.
"Was it anything?"

"No, I think not."

"Are you sure?"

Velasco leaned towards her and their fingers touched for a moment.  She
drew them away.

"Shall we go; is it time?"

"Not yet," said Velasco, "not yet!  Your lips are so sweet, they are
arched like a bow; they quiver like a string when one plays on it.
Kiss me, Kaya."

She pressed him back with her hands outstretched, her palms against his
coat.  "We must go," she whispered, "They will track us, Monsieur.  I
am frightened."

"Kaya, kiss me."

Their eyes met and drew closer, gazing intently, the dark and the blue.

"Don't touch me," she said faintly.  "We are two boys together.  You
must forget that I am a girl.  Can you forget?"

"No," said Velasco.  "You were charming before, but you are
irresistible now, in that velveteen jacket and scarf, with the curls on
your brow.  When you look at me so, with your head on one side, and
your eyes half veiled, and the flush on your cheeks, you are sweet--I
love you!  Kiss me."

He pressed forward closely, his eyes still on hers; but she held him
back with her hands, trembling a little.

"Velasco," she whispered, "Listen!  I trust you.  You are stronger than
I; your wrists are like steel, but--I trust you.  See--I trust you."

She took down her hands from his shoulders and folded them proudly over
her breast, gazing up at him.

"How strange your eyes are," said Velasco, "like two pools in the
twilight; one could drown in their depths.  You are there behind the
blue, Kaya.  Your spirit looks out at me, brave and dauntless.  When
you sob, you are like a child; when you look at me under the veil of
your lashes and your heart beats fast, you are a woman.  And now--you
are--what are you, Kaya?  A young knight watching beside his shield!"

He hesitated, and passed his hand over his brows, and looked at her
again; then he moved away slowly and began to lay the things in his
knapsack.  "They are all boys' things," he said, "but you are a boy;
they will do for you too."

"Yes," she said.

He laughed a little unsteadily.  "There is money in my belt; now the
knapsack is ready, my violin--and that is all.  It is nearly eleven.
Come--Kaya."

He turned his head away without looking at her; he approached the door
slowly.  The girl sat still in the chair.

"Are you coming?"

There was silence; then he turned on his heel, and went back to her,
and laid his hand on her shoulder.  "Kaya," he said, whispering as if
someone could hear, "Are you afraid?  Why are you afraid to come with
me, dear brother musician, dear comrade?"  His voice broke.  "I will
take care of you.  You said you would trust me, Kaya."

The girl clasped his arm with a cry: "I am not afraid for myself," she
said, "but for you--you, Velasco.  Leave me before it is too late.
There is time for the train, just time.  I implore you to go!"

She trembled and raised her eyes to his.  "If anything should happen,
and you suffered for me, I couldn't bear it.  Leave me--Velasco!"

He put out his hand and took hers, crushing it in his own strength.  He
did not speak but he drew her forward, and she followed him dumbly,
quietly, without resistance; her head drooping, the cap on the back of
her yellow curls; the lashes hiding her eyes, fringing her cheek.

He took the Stradivarius under his arm.  The door closed and they
started out, hesitating, looking back over their shoulders; stealing
down the stairs like two frightened children hand in hand.

CHAPTER X

The first pale streaks of dawn were creeping slowly up from the horizon,
piercing the darkness of night with faint, far-away shafts of light, like
arrows silver-tipped, shot from an unseen quiver.  In the distance, the
snow fields stretched limitless and vast, and between them the road wound
in and out, narrow and dark, like a coiled serpent amid the whiteness.

Here and there an occasional black-roofed farm house reared its head;
across the snow came the sudden gleam of an ice covered pond; while afar
off, to the left, the domes of Bélaïa rose dark and mysterious in their
roundness, like a patch of giant toadstools, shadowy and strange.  The
air was damp and a cold wind blew over the snow drifts.  Along the road,
in the full teeth of the blast, trudged two boys, the one a little behind
the other, and the taller of the two shielding the younger with his body.

"Is it far now, Velasco?"

"Not far, if you peep through the folds of your cloak you will see the
domes over yonder.  Are you weary, Kaya?"

"No--Velasco."

The voice came in little gasps, as if blown by the gale, fluttering like
a leaf that is tossed hither and thither.  The older boy bent his head,
struggling forward.

"The wind is like a dagger," he stammered, "it cuts through the cloak
like an edge of fine steel, like a poignard piercing the heart.  Come
closer, Kaya, and let me put my arm around you.  Your body sways like a
frail stem, a flower.  You are stumbling and your breath freezes, even as
it comes through your lips.  Come closer, or you will fall, Kaya.  Let me
put my arm around you."

"It is nothing, Velasco; only the snow that whirls before my eyes and
blinds them.  Is that the dawn, those faint, grey streaks in the
distance?"

"You are stumbling again, Kaya!  It is wonderful the way you have tramped
the whole night through.  We are almost there."

"It is only my feet, Velasco; they are frozen a little by the snow, and
numb.  That is nothing for a boy.  Let us run a race together.  Come!"

"The wind mocks at you, little one.  Run in such a blast--fight rather!
Put your head down and battle with it.  The demon!  Keep behind me a
little; use my cloak and my arm as a shield.  It is not far now."

"Shall we stop at the inn, Velasco; is it safe, do you think?  There is
one on the market-place."

"Yes, why not?"

"I was there once before, Velasco, with my--with my maid!" The girl
laughed.

"You pant, Kaya, and your breath comes in jerks.  Are you frightened?"

"No, Velasco--no!"

"They will look for us in the trains and the boats, but never in the
snow-fields and the market-places.  Kaya, we will tramp as long as you
are able to bear it, and then--"

"Then--Velasco?"

"We will take the train at some smaller station--Dvisk, Vilna--wherever
we can."

"You, Velasco, but not I."

"Both of us.  I will never leave you again.  In my pocket are passports,
blank; I bribed the official.  We will fill them in together: two
gypsies, one dark and one fair.  Ha, Kaya--keep up--a little further!
See, the domes are bigger now and nearer, and the road goes straight
without winding."

"Velasco--I cannot walk!  I cannot see!  Everything whirls before me in a
mist Go!  Leave me--I am falling--"

The older gypsey gave a despairing look over the snow-fields; they were
bare, and white, and glistening.  The golden ball of the sun had begun to
climb slowly and the shafts had grown suddenly yellow.  Across the icy
surface of the pond the wind whistled, lashing him in the face as with a
whip.  The road was narrow and deserted.  They were alone, and the form
of the younger boy lay against him unconscious, inert, half sunk in the
snow.

Velasco bent over his companion, chafing the hands, the cheeks; they were
cold like ice.  He gave another despairing glance around; then he lifted
the form in his stiffening arms and carried it slowly, laboriously
forward, plodding each step; his head bent, his teeth grit together,
fighting his way.

The shafts lengthened across the sky; the domes grew larger and began to
glitter in the rays of the sunlight; by the side of the road houses
appeared, straggling at first, then nearer together.  Suddenly, behind
them, came the tinkle of sleigh-bells, and the crunching of snow beaten
in by the weight of hoofs.

"Oï--Oï!"

Velasco stepped aside with his burden and stared at the sleigh as it
approached.  It was a cart, roughly set on runners, drawn by a pair of
long-haired ponies; while fastened behind was a mare, and two wild-eyed
colts following.

The peasant in the seat was wrapped in sheep-skin and smoking a short,
thick pipe held between his teeth.

"Oï--Oï!  Is that a corpse you hold there, Bradjaga?" he cried.  His
voice was hardly distinguishable above the roaring of the gale.

"For the love of heaven," shouted Velasco, "Moujik, if you have a heart
under your sheep-skin, let me lay my comrade in the cart!  He is faint
with the cold, benumbed.  We have tramped all night in the snow.  Are you
bound for the market at Bélaïa?  Hey, stop!  Moujik--stop!"

"Get in," said the peasant, "The ponies rear and dance as if Satan were
on their backs, and the mare is like one possessed!  It is good to see
the sun.  Get in, Bradjaga, and if the burden in your arms is no corpse
it will soon become one!  The night has been hell.  Bózhe moi!  At the
first crossing to the left is a tea-house--Get along you brutes!--Pour
the vodka into his throat; it will sting him to life!"

The ponies dashed forward, the mare and the foals running behind.
Velasco sat huddled on the floor of the cart, his violin and the knapsack
slung from his shoulders; his arms still clasping the slight, dark form,
protecting it from the jolting of the runners.  He was muttering to it
under his breath:

"Kaya--poor little one!  Your curls are damp against my cheek; your
forehead is ice!  Courage, little comrade.  Now--your heart beats
faster--your eye-lids are flickering!  Another moment and you will be
warm and safe.  The lights of the tea-house are ahead.  Moujik--faster!
We will drink a glass of vodka together, all three!  Faster--faster!"

As the sleigh dashed into the court-yard, the great red ball of the sun
rose above the distant tree-tops; and behind the stables a cock began to
crow, slowly, feebly at first, as if just awake and stretching his wings.

When Kaya came to consciousness again, she was lying on a pile of straw
in a low raftered room.  She had dreamt that she was chained and in
prison, and that something was choking her and weighing on her breast;
but when she tried to move her limbs, she found that it was the blankets,
wrapping her closely; and when she opened her eyes, she saw the face of
Velasco bending over her, and he was trying to force some wine through
her clenched lips.

"Where am I?" said Kaya faintly, "You are choking me, Velasco!"

She struggled to a sitting posture, leaning on one elbow, and peered up
into his face.  "What has happened?" she said again, "Where are we?  I
thought we were tramping through the snow and my feet were frozen!  You
are pale, Velasco, and your eyes are heavy!--Have I slept?"

Velasco glanced over his shoulder, and then brought his lips close to her
face and whispered: "You fainted and I carried you in my arms; the Moujik
brought us here in his cart.  You opened your eyes once, and then when we
laid you on the straw you fell asleep.  You slept so long I was
frightened, Kaya--if it had not been for your jacket moving under the
blankets, rising and falling softly with the beat of your heart, you
might have been dead; you were so still!  Poor little one, you were
exhausted.  Drink a little and eat!"

"What time is it, Velasco?"

"The sun was rising when we drove into the court and now, in another hour
or two, it will be setting."

Kaya put her hand to her cropped yellow curls, and then she looked at him
and a dimple came in her cheek:

"I forgot about being a boy," she murmured, "Is this what you call an
inn, Velasco?  It looks like a stable!"

"It is a stable."

Kaya looked at him again and began to laugh softly: "I forgot about being
a gypsey," she said, "Your clothes are ragged and torn, Velasco; they are
worse than they were that night in your Studio.  And I--tell me--how do I
look?"

"Like a little Bradjaga, sweet, and disreputable, and boyish!"

Kaya drew herself slowly to her knees and then to her feet, brushing the
straw from her velveteen trousers and the sleeves of her jacket.  "They
wouldn't let us in the inn because we were gypsies, was that it?  They
were afraid we would steal?"

The dimples came back in her face and she picked up her cap from the
floor, dusting it with her elbow and cramming it down on the back of her
curls.  "Steal me a little bread, Velasco, I am hungry."

"Come back to your nest in the straw, Kaya; put your fingers in my pocket
and steal for yourself.  I bought a loaf with a couple of copecks, and
some honey-cake.  At sun-down, when the peasants come for their vodka,
there will be a dance.  They have never danced to a Stradivarius before;
but they won't know the difference, Kaya, not they!  We will pay for the
straw with a rollicking waltz--Ha ha!"

The gypsey musician caught his comrade by the arm and pulled her down on
the straw beside him.

"Which pocket, Velasco?  Oh, I feel the honey-cake bulging!  Give it to
me."

"No--take it yourself!"

"Your pocket is so deep; it is like diving into a pool."

"Not so deep as your eyes, Kaya.  You thief!  Ah, take your fingers away
and pay for your bread."

"Are you fooling, Velasco?  You look at me so strangely!  Sometimes your
eyes are slits and disappear under your brows, and now--Velasco, turn
your head away--I am hungry.  You make my heart beat!--Velasco--give me
the bread."

"Pay first and then you shall have it."

She stared at him a moment, drawing back into the straw.  "I am a boy,"
she said softly, panting, "Remember I am a boy!  Don't--tease me!"

"Just once, Kaya."

"No--Velasco."

The older gypsey glanced again about the low raftered loft.  The window
in the rafters was hung with cob-webs; the light came through it dimly, a
shaft of sun-beams dancing on the floor; they fell on her hair beneath
the cap and the curls glistened like gold.  Her eyes were watching him.

"No--no--Velasco!"

He came nearer to her, and the straw crackled as he moved, stretching out
his arms: "When you were weary, Kaya, I carried you.  When you fell
asleep I watched over you.  It is not your heart that is beating so fast;
it is mine!  The colour has come back to your cheeks and the light to
your eyes.  You slept while I guarded you.  My eyes were heavy, but I
dared not shut them; I watched the folds of your jacket rising and
falling, the breath as it came through the arch of your lips; the gold of
your curls against the straw; the oval of your cheek and your lashes.  My
eyes never closed.--I have given up everything for you, Kaya, my life and
my art."

He stretched out his arms to her again, and his dark eyes gazed into her
blue ones, passionate and eager.

"--Kaya!"

She put out her hand and touched his:

"Sleep, Velasco.  Your life is safe and your art.  You have given them to
me, but I will give them back again.  Break off a piece of the bread,
Velasco, and we will talk a little together while we eat.  We have been
such good comrades, you and I, and we care for one another--as comrades
do.  If you should die or--or leave me, it would break my heart--you know
that."

"Ah, kiss me--Kaya!  Let me take you in my arms!  Come to me and let me
kiss you on your lips!"

"You hurt me, Velasco, your hands are so strong!  Not on the
lips--Velasco--not on the--lips!  I beseech you, dear friend,--I--"

The gypsey held her close to him for a moment, his heart beating against
hers, and then he turned away his head.  "I love you, Kaya; I love you!
Kiss me of your own will.  I can't force you--how can I?  Your hands are
struggling in mine, but they are soft like the down on a bird's breast!
Some day you will come to me, Kaya, some day--when you love me too.
When--ah!  The touch of your hands, your hair against my cheek sets my
blood on fire!  Feel my pulse how it throbs!  It is like a storm under
the skin!  I suffer, little Bradjaga--little comrade!"

"Don't suffer!" cried the girl, "Let me go, Velasco, let me go!  We will
sit here together, side by side; be my comrade again, my big brother!
Laugh, Velasco!  Smile at me!  When you look like that and come so close,
I am frightened!  Don't tease me any more!  The bread is hard like a nut;
see, I will crack it between my teeth.  Where is the honey-cake, Velasco?
Give me a piece."

"Do you care for me, Kaya?  Look me in the eyes and tell me."

The girl pushed him away from her slowly and turned away her head with a
flush: "Is that your violin over there in the straw, lying in a little
nest all by itself,--cradled so snug and so warm?  It is charming to be a
gypsey, Velasco.  Are you glad I came to you, or are you sorry?  That
night, do you remember the violets?  I flung them straight at your feet!
I wasn't a boy then, but I threw straight.  Velasco, listen--I--I care
for you--but don't--kiss me!"

"Kaya--Kaya!"

"Hush!  Shut your eyes!  Put your head back in the straw and go to sleep.
When it is time for the dance I will wake you.  I will sit here close
beside you and watch, as you watched over me.  Shut your eyes, Velasco."

"Won't you--Kaya?"

"Go to sleep, Velasco--hush!"

"If I shut my eyes--will you?"

"Hush!"

The sun-beams danced on the dusty floor and the light came dimly through
the cobwebs.  Velasco lay with his arm under his head, his young limbs
stretched in the straw, asleep.  He murmured and tossed uneasily.  There
was a flush on his face; his dark hair fell over his brows and teased
him, and he flung it back, half unconscious.

Kaya covered him with the blanket, kneeling beside him in the straw.  She
moved without rustling, drawing it in softly, and smoothing the straw
with her fingers.

"It is my fault that he is lying here in a loft," she whispered low to
herself, "He does it for me!  His hands have been frozen--for me!  They
were so white, and firm, and supple; and now--they are scratched and
swollen!"

She gave a frightened glance about the loft, and then bent over him,
holding back a fold of the blanket.

"He is asleep!" she breathed, "He will never know!"

She stooped low with her golden head and kissed his hands one after the
other, lightly, swiftly, pressing her lips to the scratches.  He murmured
again, tossing uneasily; and she fell backwards in the straw, gazing at
him, with her arms locked over her breast and her heart throbbing madly.

"No--he is asleep!" she said, "He is fast asleep!  Another hour, and then
in the dusk I will wake him.  He will play for the dancing--Velasco!  The
greatest violinist in all Russia--he will play for the peasants to dance!"

She gave a little sob, half smothered.  "It was wicked," she said,
"unpardonable!  I didn't know then--how could I know?  If I had
known!--God, save him!  Give him back his life and his art that he has
given to me.  Give it all back to him, and let me suffer alone the curse
of the Cross--the curse of the--Cross!  Make me strong to resist him!
Ah, Velasco--!"

She was sobbing through her clenched teeth; staring at him, stretching
out her arms to him.

--"Velasco!"

CHAPTER XI

The room was long, and low, and bare, lighted in the four corners by
lamps, small and ill-smelling.  The ceiling was blackened by the smoke
from them, and the air was heavy, clouding the window-panes.  At one
end of the room was a raised platform, and on the platform sat two
gypseys; the one was dark, in a picturesque, tattered costume, with a
scarf about his waist, and a violin; the other was slight, with golden
curls clipped short, and a ragged jacket of velveteen, worn at the
elbows.

The floor of the room was crowded with dancers; sturdy, square-faced
moujiks in high boots; and their sweethearts in kerchiefs and short
skirts.  The moujiks perspired, stamping the boards with their boots
until the lamps rattled and shook, and the smoke rolled out of the
chimneys; embracing the heavy forms of the women with hands worn and
still grimy with toil.  The tones of the violin filled the room.  "One,
two--one, two--one, two, three--curtsey and turn--one, two, three."

The dark haired gypsey sat limply in his chair, playing, his back half
turned to the room.  There was no music before him.  He improvised as
he played, snatches of themes once forgotten, woven and bound with
notes of his own.  His eyes were closed; he swayed a little in his
chair, holding the violin close to his cheek.

"One, two--one, two--one, two, three."

The younger gypsey sat cross-legged on the floor, gazing down at the
whirling crowd, blurred by the smoke.  In his hands he held a
tambourine, which he shook occasionally in rhythm with the waltz,
glancing over his shoulder at his companion and laughing.  Occasionally
they whispered together.

"You play too well, Velasco!  Hist--scratch with the bow!"

"I can't, Kaya, it is maddening!"

"Just a little, Velasco."

"Is that better?  Týsyacha chertéi, how it rasps one's ears!"

"Yes, but your technique, Velasco!  No gypsey could play like that!
Leave out the double stops and the trills!"

"I forget, little one, I forget!  The Stradivarius plays itself.  Keep
the castanet rattling and then I will remember."

"Velasco, hist--st!  There are strangers standing by the door; they
have just come in!  Scratch a little more, just a little.  Your tone is
so deep and so pure.  When you rubato, and then quicken suddenly, and
the notes come in a rush like that, I can hardly keep still.  My pulses
are leaping, dancing!  One, two--one, two, three!"

"Is that right?  Don't ask me to scratch, Kaya!  I can't bear it so
close to my ear.  The din of their stamping is frightful, the swine!
No one will notice."

The whispering ceased.  The gypsey bent his dark head again and the
violin played on.  "One, two--one, two, three!"

All of a sudden, voices began to call out from the floor, here and
there among the dancers, irritated and angry; then an oath or two:
"Keep time, Bradjaga, keep time!"  Their heels beat against the floor.

The landlord crossed the room hastily, edging in and out among the
dancers; he was frowning and rubbing his hands one over the other.
When he reached the platform, he leaned on it with his elbows and
beckoned to the gypsies.

"You don't play badly," he called, "not badly at all; but Dimitri, the
old man, he suited them better.  He always came strong on the beat.
Play the old tunes, Bradjaga; something they know with a crash on the
first, like this."

He clapped his hands: "_One_, two, three!  _One_, two, three!  And
fast--just so, all the time!"

"Chórt vozmí[1]!" cried Velasco, "They don't like my playing!  Don't
clap your hands again--don't!  The racket is enough to split one's
ear-drums!"

He dropped his violin on his knees and stared blinking at the landlord,
who was still gesticulating and taking little skipping steps by way of
illustration.

"_One_, two, three--_one_, two, three!  So, loud and strong!  Just try
it, Bradjaga!"

Velasco blinked again and a flush came slowly in his cheeks: "My poor
Stradivarius," he said slowly in Polish, "They don't like you; they
prefer a common fiddler with a crash on the beat!  Bózhe moi!  Kaya, do
you hear?"

The younger gypsey made a sound half startled, half laughing, drawing
nearer to him on the platform.  "Hist, Velasco!  They are peasants;
they don't know!  Ah, be careful--the strangers are crossing the floor.
They are looking at you and talking together!  I knew it, I feared it!"

The dancing had stopped, and threading their way through the groups
came several ladies and a gentleman.

"Bradjaga," said the landlord, "This is Ivan Petrokoff, the famous
musician of Moscow, who has deigned to honour my humble house with his
presence.  He wishes to examine your instrument."

The gentleman nodded brusquely and stretched out a fat hand.  He was
short and quite bald, and he stuttered as he spoke.  "Quite a d-decent
fiddle for a gypsey," he said, "Let me s-see it!"

Velasco bowed with his hand on his heart: "It is mine," he said in a
humble voice, "A thousand pardons, Bárin!  Impossible!"

"I will p-pay you for it!" said the gentleman angrily, "How much do you
w-want?"

Velasco smiled and put his hand to his heart again, shrugging his
shoulders.

"Not that it is of any p-particular value," continued Petrokoff, "but I
like the t-tone.  I will give you--hm--s-sixty-five roubles!"

Velasco drew the bow softly over the strings; he was still smiling.

"Seventy!  That is exorbitant for a g-gypsey's fiddle!   You could buy
a d-dozen other instruments for that, just as good!  Come--will you
t-take it?"

Velasco began to trill softly on the G string, and then swept over the
arch with an arpeggio pianissimo.

"You are like a J-Jew!" exclaimed the musician.  "You want to bargain!
One hundred r-roubles then!  There!"  He turned to the landlord,
stretching out his fat hands, palms upwards.  "Absurd isn't it?  The
f-fellow must be mad!"

"Mad indeed," echoed the landlord, "A miserable, tattered bradjaga, who
can't even keep time.  You heard yourself, Professor, how he changed
the beat and threw the dancers out, every moment or so.  They are
nothing but tramps; but if you want a fiddle, Bárin, old Dimitri, who
is sick in bed with the rheumatism in his legs, he will sell you his
for a quarter the price and be thankful.  A nice little instrument,
fine and well polished, not old and yellow with the back worn!"

He twiddled his fingers in contempt.

Velasco ran lightly a scale over the strings.  His hair fell over his
brows and he half closed his eyes, gazing at the musician through the
slits mockingly.

"Are you really the great Petrokoff?" he said, "The Professor of the
Violin known through all Russia!  From Moscow?  Even the gypsies have
heard of you!"

The Professor lifted his fingers to his lips and blew on them as if to
warm the ends, which were flat and stubbed from much playing on the
strings: "Humph!" he said, "You are only a boy!  You are talented, it
is true; but what do you know of violinists?  You ought to be studying."

"That is true, Bárin," said Velasco humbly.  "I am only a poor gypsey;
I know nothing!"

"Let me see your hand and your arm," said Petrokoff, "Yes, the shape is
excellent; the muscles are good.  You need training of course.  If you
come to the Conservatory at Moscow, I may be able to procure for you a
scholarship for one of my classes."

"Ah, Bárin--your Excellence, how kind you are!" murmured the gypsey.
"I should like it above all things!  Would the Bárin teach me himself?"

"Certainly," said Petrokoff loftily, "Certainly; but you would have to
pass an examination.  Your bowing, for instance, is bad!  You should
hold your arm so, and your wrist like this."

"Like this?" murmured Velasco, curving his wrist first in one way, then
in another.  "That is indeed difficult, Bárin."

"Give the bow to me," said Petrokoff, "Now, let me show you!  I am very
particular about that with all my pupils.  There--that is better."

The gypsey brushed a lock from his eyes and took up the bow carefully,
as if he were handling an egg with the shell broken.  "Ah--so?" he
said, "Of course!  And can you play with your wrist like that, Bárin?"

Petrokoff stretched out his hand and took the violin from the gypsey's
arms: "Give it to me," he said, "You notice how limpid, how rich the
tone!  That comes from the method.  You will learn it in time; the
secret lies in the bowing, the way the wrist is held--so!"

Velasco opened his eyes wide: "Oh, how clumsy I am in comparison!" he
said wistfully.  "Your scale, Bárin!  I never heard such a scale."  He
gave a swift glance over his shoulder at his companion with a low
whistle of astonishment.

"Your comrade seems to be choking," said one of the ladies, "I never
heard any one cough so.  Is he consumptive?"

"No--no!" said the gypsey.  "It is probably a crumb of bread gone the
wrong way; or the dust blown about by the dancing.  He will recover.
Bárin--now tell me, do I hold the elbow right?"

"Not at all.  The arm must be--so!"

"Ah--so?"

"That is better."

The gypsey ran his fingers over the strings in exact imitation of
Petrokoff.  The tone was thin, and his fingers moved stiffly as if
weighted.  His face wore an anxious expression.  "Dear me!" he
exclaimed, "It is more difficult than I imagined.  Does every violinist
hold his bow like that?"

Petrokoff cleared his throat and his chest swelled a little under his
coat.  "Bradjaga, I have taught the violin for twenty-five years--there
is no other way."

The gypsey sighed.  "My own way is so much simpler," he said, "Look!"
His fingers flew over the neck of the Stradivarius in harmonics, swift
and sure as the flight of a hawk; his bow seemed to leap in his hand,
and when he reached the top note of all, high, clear and sweet, he
trilled on it softly, swelling out into a tone pure and strange like
the sighing of wind in the tree-tops.  The hair fell over his brows,
and for a moment there was silence in the room.

Kaya had stopped coughing; she had clapped one hand over her mouth to
still the sound, and her blue eyes were fixed on one of the ladies, who
was staring hard at the gypsey.  They were listening intently.
Petrokoff stood with his hands clasped over his waistcoat, his head a
little to one side, nodding gently from time to time, as if listening
to a pupil in his class room.

"Yes," he began, "as I said before, you have talent.  I think I could
make something of you; but your bowing is bad, very bad; your method is
abominable!  It would never be allowed in the Conservatory; and your
harmonics--bah!"

He shrugged his shoulders, spreading his fat fingers in disgust.  "Give
me the violin again; it is too good an instrument for a boy.  If you
come to Moscow, I will give you two hundred roubles, just out of
charity.  The instrument isn't worth the half, as you know.  But I have
a good heart, I am interested in your progress.  With the two hundred
roubles you can pay for your lodging and food.  The harmonics--listen!
They should sound like this."

He played a few notes on the top of the instrument, shrill and sharp.
The gypsey stretched out his arms eagerly.

"Let me try, Bárin!" he cried, "So--so?"

The harmonics seemed to squeak in derision; they flatted, and the sound
was like the wheels of a cart unoiled.

"Stop!" cried Petrokoff, "It is horrible!  For the love of heaven,
Bradjaga, stop!"

The gypsey drew the bow slowly and lingeringly over the flatted notes.
It was like the wail of a soul in inferno; a shriek like a devil
laughing.

"Ha-ha!" cried Velasco.  "Now I understand!  That is what you were
after, Bárin?"

Petrokoff eyed him sharply.

The boy's face was the picture of innocence; the mouth was slightly
puckered as if with concentrated effort; his eyes were open and frank;
he was smiling a little triumphantly like a child that is sure of
pleasing and waiting for praise.

"You play atrociously," said Petrokoff severely.  "I shall keep you six
months on finger exercises alone.  You play false!"

The light died out of the boy's face:

"Bárin," he said humbly, "In Moscow you will teach me to play like
yourself.  I am nothing but an ignorant bradjaga as you see."

Suddenly he put his hand to his mouth and began to cough: "The dust!"
he said, "It has gone to my throat all at once.  Eh--what?  Excuse me a
moment, Bárin."

Kaya's yellow curls were close to his ear and she whispered something.
She was standing behind his chair and, as she stooped to him, her hand
rested on his shoulder and trembled slightly: "Velasco," she said, in a
voice like a breath, "Come, I beseech you!  You are playing with
danger, with death!  They will surely suspect; ah, come!"

The gypsey tossed his head, like a young horse when some one is trying
to force the bit between his teeth; his chin stiffened and an obstinate
look came into his eyes.  He brushed her aside: "No," he murmured, "Go
away, Kaya!  He is a stupid fool, can't you see?  I am not half
through; it is heavenly to hear him!  Go--go!  I want to tease him some
more; I tell you I will."

The younger gypsey sank back on the floor cross-legged, half hidden by
the chair and the form of Velasco.  Her hands were still trembling and
she put them in the pockets of her jacket, trying to force her red lips
to a whistle; but no sound came through the arch.  She heard the voice
of Velasco smooth, and wicked, and humble, just above her.

"There is a musician," he was saying, "Perhaps you have heard of him?
His name is Velasco."

"Bosh!" said Petrokoff in an angry tone, and then he blew his nose
loudly.  "Velasco--bosh!  He is only a trickster!  There is a fad
nowadays among the ladies to run after him."  He bowed to the three
ladies in turn mockingly, "My friends here tried to get tickets last
week in St. Petersburg, but the house was sold out.  Bosh--I tell you!
I wouldn't cross the street to hear a virtuoso like that!"

The gypsey gave a queer sound like a chuckle: "He does not play as you
do, of course, Bárin!"

"I!" cried Petrokoff.  He twirled his mustache fiercely.  "The Russians
are like children, they run after every new plaything.  The Pole is a
new plaything, a toy--bah!  I have been before the public twenty-five
years.  I am an artist; I am one of the old School.  I--"

"Go away, Kaya!" whispered Velasco, "This is grand!  I haven't enjoyed
myself so much for an age.  Go away, little one; don't be frightened.
It is all right, only don't cough too much, or the ladies will see you
are laughing.

"Ah, Velasco, come--come!"

"Go away, child!  He is opening his mouth again, the fat monster!
Watch the 'I' leap out!  If he plays again I shall die in a fit; he
handles the bow like the fin of a shark.  Be still, Kaya--go!"

"Velasco--listen, won't you listen?  The ladies--ah, don't turn your
head away--the one with the grey bonnet is the Countess Galli.  I have
seen her often at my father's house, Velasco; and she stares first at
me, then at you.  She suspects."

"The fright, with the long nose?"

"Yes, and the pince-nez."

"She is staring now.  Make up a face at her, Kaya; that will scare her
away.  She has never seen you in boy's clothes before, I warrant, with
your hands in your pockets, and your curls clipped short, and a cap on
the back of your head--ha ha!"

"Velasco, don't laugh.  Don't you see she is whispering to Petrokoff
now and looking at us through her pince-nez?"

"So she is, the vixen, the miserable gossip!  Slip out towards the door
quietly, Kaya, while they are talking.  I will follow directly.  Wait
at the back of the stable by the hay loft."

The gypsey stood up suddenly and approached the little group of ladies,
bowing to them and to Petrokoff.  He was wrapping the violin in its
cover and laying it away in its case as he moved.  "Pardon, Bárin," he
said softly, "If you will wait for me here, I shall return presently.
My supper is waiting.  Perhaps after an hour you will still like to
purchase the violin.  See, it is really not a bad instrument--if you
are in earnest about the two hundred roubles?"

Petrokoff stepped eagerly forward.  "Now," he said, "Give it to me now.
I will hand you the money at once in notes."

"Presently, Bárin," said Velasco still softly, "I will return directly.
If your Excellency will permit--"

He slipped past the outstretched arm of the musician; bowed again to
the lady in the grey bonnet, staring straight into the gold-rimmed
lorgnette; and the door closed behind him.  Running like a grey-hound,
Velasco darted through the corridor and around by the side of the inn
to the stable.  It was dark there, deserted, and beyond, the snow
glittered on the meadows.

"Kaya--are you there?"

"Here, Velasco."

"Have you the knapsack?"

"Yes--yes, here it is."

"Take my hand then and run--run, Kaya, for the Countess has told
Petrokoff; she has told him by now.  They'll be hot on our tracks!
This way--to the left of the road!  Hold fast to my hand and run,
Kaya--run!"

"I will, Velasco, I will!"

"Don't fall--don't stumble!"

"I won't!  Which way?  I can't see the road."

"Ahead, straight ahead!  Hold me faster!  Leap as I leap--and if you
hear hoofs, sink down in the shadow."

"Yes--yes, Velasco!"

"Ah, run, dearest--run, for the fiends are behind us!  I hear hoofs and
bells.  Run--run!"

[1] The devil take you.

CHAPTER XII

"Who is in the sleigh, Kaya, can you see?  Keep low in the shadow and
don't move your head."

"The Countess, Velasco, and Petrokoff and two other men."

"Gendarmes?"

"I think they are gendarmes, Velasco.  They look from side to side of
the road as they pass and urge the driver forward."

"Bózhe moi, little one!  Keep close to me and hold your breath; in
another moment they will be past."

"Now--Velasco!  Now they are out of sight; the last tinkle of the bells
sounds in the distance.  Shall we lie here, or follow?"

The gypsey took a long breath and rose to his feet, brushing the snow
from his trousers and coat.  The girl still sat crouching behind the
drift, peering ahead into the dark windings of the road and listening.

"Come, little one!" said Velasco, "The fields are covered deep with the
snow; there are no paths and we cannot go back.  Give me your hand.
You will freeze if you linger."

The girl put her hand in his, springing up, and they darted into the
dark windings together, making little rushes forward, hand in hand;
then poising on one foot and listening.

"They might turn back you know, Velasco."

"Do you hear the bells?"

"Not yet."

Then they ran on.

The night grew darker and darker; the sky was heavy and black with
clouds, and between them a faint light flitted occasionally like the
ghost of a moon, but feeble and wan.  It struggled with the clouds,
piercing them for an instant; and then it was gone and the sky grew
blacker, like a great inky; surface, reflecting shadows on the
snowfields, gigantic and strange.  The wind had died down, but the cold
was intense, bitter, and the chill of the ice crept into the bones.

"What is that dark thing ahead on the road, can you see, Velasco?"

"Hist--Kaya, I see!  It is big and black.  It seems to be a house, or
an inn, for look--there are lights like stars just appearing."

"Not that, Velasco, look closer, in front of the house; does it look
like a sleigh?"

Velasco's grip tightened on the woolen glove of the girl and they
halted together, half hesitating.

"A sleigh, Kaya?  Stay here in the shadow--I will steal ahead and look."

"Don't leave me; let me go with you!"

The woolen glove clung to him and they went forward again, a step at a
time, with eyes straining through the snow.

"Is it the sleigh of the Countess, big and black with three horses
abreast?"

"Yes--it looks so."

"Is there some one inside?"

"The driver perhaps!  No, there is no one.  Velasco, they have gone
into the inn to drink something warm and ask questions perhaps--'Have
you seen two gypsies, one dark and one fair?'--Ah, Velasco, what shall
we do?  Shall we creep past on tiptoe?"

The girl drew close to him and looked up in his face.  "What shall we
do, Velasco--speak!  You stand there with your eyes half shut, in a
dream.  Shall we run, Velasco?  Shall we run on ahead?"

The gypsey put his finger to his lips and crept forward.  "This is a
God-forsaken hole, Kaya!" he whispered, "No telegraph--and perhaps no
horses; they could only get oxen or mules.  It will take several
minutes to drink their hot tea--and the brutes are quite fresh!"

He moved cautiously, swiftly, to the hitching post, fumbling with the
straps.  The horses whinnied a little, nosing one another and pawing
the earth.

"What are you doing, Velasco?"

"Jump in, Kaya, jump in--quick, or the driver will hear!  Take the
fiddle!  Ah, the deuce with this knot!"

With a last tug the knot yielded.  Velasco dashed to the step and
sprang on it; then his knees gave beneath him, and he fell in the snow
as the horses leaped forward.

"Oï--oï!  Týsyacha chertéi!  A pest!"

With oaths and shrieks of rage the driver rushed from the kitchen of
the inn, wiping the vodka from his beard with his sleeve.  From the
tea-room three other men rushed forward, also shouting, and behind them
the Countess.

"What is it?" she screamed, "Have the horses run away?  Where is the
sleigh and my buffalo robe?  Are they stolen?  Catch the thieves--catch
them!"

Velasco still lay in the snow, stunned by his fall, a dark patch like a
shadow.  The sleigh had turned suddenly and veered around, not half a
rod distant.  Kaya stood with the reins uplifted, dragging back on the
bits; and the horses were rearing, plunging, back on their haunches,
slipping on the ice.

"Velasco!" she cried, "Velasco!"

Her voice rang out like a trumpet, echoing over the snow; and as she
cried, she swept the horses about and lashed them with the whip, until
they came leaping and trembling close to the patch on the snow, which
had begun to stir slowly, awaking from the swoon.

"Ah, if I were a man!" she cried, "If I were only a man and could lift
you!"  She clinched her teeth, swinging the whip, reining back the
struggling animals with her slim, white hands from which she had torn
the gloves.

As the figure moved again uneasily, half sitting up in the snow, the
men rushed forward.

"Here they are--the gypsies!  We have them!  They were stealing the
sleigh, the rascals!"

As they sprang at Velasco, surrounding him, there came suddenly a swift
whizz through the air, a singing as of a hornet, and the heavy lash
struck them, across the face, the eyes, the shoulders, stinging and
sharp, leaving cruel welts as it struck.  The driver screamed out, half
blinded.  The gendarmes started back.  Petrokoff fell on his knees and
cowered behind a bush, his fat body trembling and his hands
outstretched as if praying:

"For the love of the saints!" he cried, "Don't strike!"

The lash flashed through the air, blinding and terrible in its
rapidity.  The gypsey leaned over the dash-board, her face white, her
eyes dark with rage, her cap on the back of her yellow curls; and the
whip seemed to leap between her fingers like something alive.

"Velasco!" she screamed, "Get up!  Come--ah, come, while I beat them,
the fiends!"

The cry seemed to pierce the benumbed brain of her companion, as the
lash the skin.  The dark patch moved again and Velasco struggled to his
feet; he ran towards the sleigh.  The girl leaned forward once more and
as the gendarmes sprang towards them again, swearing at her and
shouting, she lashed them fiercely across the face and the eyes,
mercilessly, with little cries of rage.  Velasco tumbled in beside her
on the seat.

"Are you there?" she cried, "Are you safe?"

Then she turned, and loosening the reins the lash fell on the horses,
cutting them sharply; and they dashed forward, the foam dripping from
their bits and their hoofs striking sparks from the ice as they fled,
galloping madly, swiftly, through the snow.

In a moment the inn was left behind, the shouting and swearing died
away in the distance, and there was silence, broken only by the panting
of the horses and the sound of their hoofs galloping.  Kaya still urged
them forward, shaking the reins in her left hand and lashing with the
whip.

"You are safe!" she cried, "You are there, Velasco?"

And then as the silence continued, a great fear came over her; her
heart seemed to leap in her throat and her pulses stopped beating.  She
stooped over him, unheeding the horses.  They were in the midst of the
forest now, and the next town was several versts distant.  It was dark
and she put her face close to his, crying out: "Velasco!  Velasco!"

Then she saw that he had fainted again; from his forehead a dark stream
was gushing slowly; and when she touched it, it was warm and wet.  She
gave a little cry.

The horses galloped on, but the sleigh moved more smoothly and slid
over the icy surface of the snow.  Kaya wound the reins about the
dash-board.  They were quiet now, let them gallop!  She bent again over
her companion and, taking the snow that lay on the side of the sleigh,
she bathed the wound with it, staunching the flow with her
handkerchief, holding his head against her breast.

"Velasco!" she whispered low, as if afraid he might waken and hear: "It
is better now.  The wound has stopped bleeding--only a drop or two
comes on my handkerchief!  You struck it on the runners as you fell; I
will bind it now with my scarf.  Velasco--dear Velasco!  Open your eyes
and look at me--smile at me!  We are safe.  We are alone in the forest
and the horses are galloping.  Soon we shall be at the station--in the
train!  A few hours from the frontier--only a few hours--Velasco!"

He stirred in her arms and moaned, and his eye-lids quivered as if
trying to open.  Kaya took the scarf from her waist and began to wind
it slowly about the wound on his forehead.  Her breath came in little
gasps through her parted lips.

"Have I your blood too on my hands, Velasco?  Ah, waken and look at me!
We have only a few hours more together--a few hours!  Then you will
never see me again.  Never--never!"

She clasped him closer to her breast and bent over him in terror.
"Don't die, Velasco!  The wound has stopped bleeding.  Why don't you
open your eyes?  Don't die!  If you die I shall die too.  I love you,
Velasco!  I love you--I love you!"

She laid her cheek to his cold one and tried to warm it.  She covered
him with her cloak.  It grew darker and colder, and the horses galloped
on.  Presently he stirred again in her arms and opened his eyes, and
they looked at one another.

"Kaya" he said, "I heard you--I heard you!"

She shrank back away from him: "You heard--me?" she stammered.

Then he fainted again.

The horses galloped on.  The fields of snow stretched in the distance,
the frost on the surface glittering like myriads of tiny dew-drops.
Through the inky blackness of the clouds the moon shone out fitfully,
Streaking the road with flashes of light, pale and shadowy.  Ahead
gleamed the lamps of the station.  The hoofs rang on the frozen snow.

Suddenly Velasco lifted his head from the breast of Kaya.  He steadied
himself and sat upright in the seat.  The wound was bound about by the
red scarf and his face looked white in the faint moon-beams.  There was
blood on his jacket and the folds of his vest, and the scarf was
spotted with crimson blotches.

He stared straight ahead at the tossing manes of the horses, their
galloping bodies, three abreast, plunging and straining in the harness;
the reins knotted to the dash-board; the dark, winding road bordered by
snow-drifts; the lights in the distance looming nearer, and the bulk of
the station.  His eyes were shining under the bandage, wide-open
beneath the brows.

Kaya drew away from him slowly, burying herself in the corner of the
sleigh, drawing the buffalo robe close about her and trembling.  The
cold was bitter.

He drank in the icy air in long breaths, and it seemed to give him
strength, to clear the fumes of the brain.  He was like one who has
been drowning and is coming to life again gradually.  Suddenly he
turned and they faced one another.  The hoofs rang against the ice,
pounding forward; the sleigh was lurching, and the runners slipped and
slid in the snow.

"Kaya!"

"Velasco."

He put his arms out and they closed around her; he drew her nearer and
nearer with all the strength in his body, and she yielded slowly,
resisting and weak.  She yielded until his lips were on hers, and then
she flung out her arms with a little cry and they clung together,
closely, silently.

The horses galloped on and the sleigh lurched faster--and faster.

CHAPTER XIII

The night train steamed swiftly through the darkness, the cars swaying
from side to side of the track, and the couplings clanging and jolting.
It was warm inside the compartments and the air made a thick steam on
the windows, hiding the snowfields and the station as the train rushed
thundering past.  In one of the third-class compartments two gypsies
sat together with their heads close to the window, peering out.

"Half an hour now, Velasco."

"Twenty-two minutes, Kaya."

"Now, only twelve."

"Are the passports ready, Velasco?"

"They are here, little one.  There is Virballen now in the distance;
can you see the roofs and the eagle floating?  In another moment,
another second--!"

The two gypsies sat quiet, straining their eyes through the steam; then
the dark one rose suddenly and adjusted the strap of his knapsack,
taking his violin in his hand.

"The train is slowing up now, Kaya, come!  Follow me close, and look
neither to the right nor the left."

The two sprang from the train, and hurrying into the customs-room of
the station were soon lost in the crowd.  The minutes dragged slowly.

"Do you see that paling, Kaya?  The other side of it is Germany--is
freedom."

"I know, Velasco--I know!"

"Your heart is beating and throbbing, Kaya; your jacket tosses like a
ship in a storm.  Fold your arms over its fluttering, little one, that
the guards may not see.  They are coming now."

"Pray--Velasco!"

"To whom should I pray?  The Tsar perhaps--or the Icon over yonder?"
The gypsey laughed, holding out the passports.  He was swaggering with
his hands in his pockets, and when the official spoke to him, he
shrugged his shoulders and answered in dialect.

"Bohemian!" he said, "Yes--gypsies!  We earn our living on the road, my
comrade and I--eh, Bradjaga?"  With that, he clapped Kaya on the
shoulder, showing his white teeth and laughing: "No baggage, Bárin,
no--no, only this--and that!"

He pointed to the knapsack swung from his shoulder and the violin in
his hand.

"What does this ragamuffin do?" demanded the official, looking narrowly
at Kaya, "He is fair for a gypsey."

The girl started back for a moment, her shoulder brushing the shoulder
of Velasco; then she lifted her blue eyes to the official, and her
heart seemed to leap and bound like a wild thing caged.  She began to
stammer, shrinking back against her companion.  A bell sounded suddenly
in the office behind them and the official started:

"A telegraph despatch!" he said, "Ha--I must go!"

The girl sprang forward and clutched his sleeve: "Don't go!" she said,
"You ask what I can do--I can dance!  We will show you, my comrade and
I.  In a moment the doors will be unlocked; wait until the doors are
unlocked!  We will give you a performance now, a special performance
such as the Tsar himself has heard and seen--Play!"

She waved Her hand to Velasco, and in a moment the violin was out of
its wrappings and held to his cheek.  He was playing a wild, strange
rhythm and Kaya was dancing.  The crowd made a circle about them, and
the official stood in the centre transfixed, open-mouthed.

The violin was like a creature alive, it sobbed and laughed; and when
it sobbed, the little figure of the dancer swayed slowly, languidly,
like a flower blown to and fro by the breeze; and when it laughed, the
rhythm quickened suddenly in a rush like an avalanche falling, and the
figure sprang out into the air, turning, twisting, pirouetting; every
movement graceful, intense, full of feeling and passion.

The crowd about the gypsies stood spell-bound; the official never
stirred.  The bell rang again and again.  Every time it rang, a new
impetus seemed to seize the dancer.  Her feet in the heavy boots seemed
scarcely to touch the ground; the green of the velveteen was like the
colour of a kaleidoscope, and the gold of her curls glittered and
sparkled under the cap.  The crowd swayed with the rhythm; they grew
drunk with it and their bodies quivered as they watched.  The minutes
passed like a flash.

Suddenly there came a creak in the lock; the key turned and the great
doors opened, the doors towards Germany.  Beyond was the long line of
paling; the flag with the eagle floating; the sentinels with their
muskets over their shoulders.  A step and then--

The dancer made a little rush forward, gave a spring in the air and
then bowed, snatching off the cap.

"Messieurs--Mesdames!"

She held the cap in her two hands, eagerly, pleadingly, and the silver
fell into it.  Copecks--ten--twenty--hundreds of them, and roubles,
round and heavy; they clinked as they fell.

"I thank you!" cried the gypsey, "Good-bye, Messieurs--Mesdames!  Au
revoir!"

She bowed again, backing towards the door, the cap still held between
her hands, the Violinist following.

"Adieu!  Au revoir!"

The crowd clapped noisily, cheering until the great, bare station of
the customs rang and re-echoed.

"Au revoir!  Adieu!"

The gypsies backed together, smiling, bowing; they passed through the
door.  They reached the paling--the sentinels; the flag with the eagle
floated over their heads; then a click, and the gate closed behind them.

They were on German soil.  They were free--they were free.

"Kaya!" said Velasco.

The room at the inn was small and very still.  The shades were down,
and over in the corner, beyond the couch, a single candle was burning.

"Are you awake, Kaya?" said Velasco softly, bending over the couch
until his curls brushed hers, and his lips were close to her rosy cheek.

"I have watched so long for your eyes to open, Kaya!  My--wife."

The girl moved uneasily on the pillow.

"My wife--Kaya!"

He put his arms about her and she lay still for a moment, scarcely
breathing.  Then she spoke:

"I am not your wife, Velasco.  Take your arms away."

"Your cheek is so soft, Kaya; the centre is like a red rose blushing.
Let me rest my cheek against it."

"Take your cheek away--Velasco."

"Your lips are arched like a bow, so red, so sweet!  When I press
them--I press--them!"

"Velasco--Velasco!  Take your lips--away!"

The girl half rose on her pillow, pushing him back; striking at him
feebly with her bare hands; "Go--don't touch me!  I have been asleep--I
am mad!  I am not your wife--Velasco!  We must part at once--I tell
you, we must part!"

Velasco laughed: "Part!" he said, "You and I, Kaya?--Part?  Have you
forgotten the church, the priest in his surplice, the dark nave and the
candles?  We knelt side by side.  You are my wife and I am your
husband.  Kaya, we can never part in life or in death."

The girl put her hand to her breast: "It was only a 'Nihilistic
marriage,' Velasco, you know what that means!  A mere form for the sake
of the certificate, the papers--just to show for the passport that we
might go together."  Her voice came through her throat roughly as if it
hurt her.

Velasco laughed again shortly: "What is that to me?" he said, "We were
married; you are my wife.  Put your hands down, Kaya--let me take you
in my arms.  You know--throughout the journey, when we were tramping
through the snow and the cold, I treated you as a comrade, for your
sake.  You asked it.  You know--Kaya?  And now--now we are in Germany;
we are gypsies no longer.  You are the Countess and I am Velasco--your
husband, Kaya, your--husband."

He stretched out his arms to her, and his eyes were like sparks of
light under his brows, gleaming.  His hands trembled: "Look at me,
Kaya, look at me.  Why do you torment me?"

The girl thrust her hand slowly into the breast of her jacket and drew
out a paper.  "You lost it," she said, "in the prison.  I found it on
the floor.  The--the certificate of our marriage.  I swore that
night--if we reached the frontier I would--Velasco, don't touch me!--I
would destroy it!"

She held it away from him and her eyes gazed into his.

"You would never destroy it, Kaya!" He looked at her and then he gave a
cry: "Stop--Kaya!"

She had torn the paper across into strips and was flinging the pieces
from her; she was laughing.  "You, my husband, Velasco?  Are you mad?
The daughter of General Mezkarpin marry a musician!  Our family is one
of the oldest in Russia and yours--!"  She laughed again wildly,
clasping her hands to her throat.  "You are mad--Velasco!"

He looked at her steadily.  "Tell me the truth," he said, "Do you love
me, or do you not love me?  Yes, or no."

"No, Velasco.  You were kind to me--you saved my life; I am grateful.
If it had not been for you--"  Then she laughed again, staggering to
her feet.  "Love you?  No--no!  A thousand times--no!"

"That is a lie," said Velasco.  "You are trembling all over like a
leaf.  Your cheeks are ashy.  The tears are welling up in your eyes
like a veil over the blue.  You are breathless--you are sobbing."

He flung his arms around her and pressed her head to his breast,
kissing the curls.  "Lie still, Kaya, lie still in my arms!  The gods
only know why you said it, but it isn't the truth!  You love me--say
you love me!  You said it in the sleigh when I was stunned, half
conscious!  Say it again--Kaya!  The certificate is nothing.  Does love
need a certificate?"  He laughed aloud.  "Say it, Kaya--let me hear
you, my beloved!"

She was silent, clinging to him; she had stopped struggling.  Her eyes
were closed and he kissed her fiercely on the lips again and again.
Presently he was frightened, and a chill of terror and foreboding stole
over him.

"Look at me, Kaya--open your eyes!  Have I hurt you--was I too rough?
Are you angry?  I love you so!  The whole world is nothing; art is
nothing; fame is nothing.  I would sell my Stradivarius for the touch
of your fingers in mine, Kaya!  I would give my soul for a look in your
eyes!  Ah, open them--dearest!"

His voice shook and was hoarse, and he held her away from him, gazing
down at her face and the panting of her breast.  "Tell me you love
me--Kaya!"

Suddenly she stiffened until her body was straight and unbending as
steel, and the strength came back to her slowly.  She opened her eyes
and the veil was gone; they were flashing and hard.  "You use your
strength like a coward, Velasco," she said.  "Can you force love?  I
told you the truth."

She pointed to the fragments of paper on the floor with her finger,
scornfully: "There lies the bond between us," she said, "See--it is
shattered; it lies at our feet.  You will go on your way from here
alone, to fill your engagements, and I--"  She hesitated and stopped
again, as one who is afraid of stumbling.

Her arms stiffened, and her hands, and her whole body; and she drew
away from him, avoiding his eyes, and looking only at the fragments of
paper on the floor.

"Good-bye now--Velasco," she said.

He looked at her, and he was trembling and shaking from head to foot,
like one in a chill.  His teeth were clenched and his eyes were
bloodshot; the pulses beat in his temples.

"My God!" he cried, "If it is true--if you don't love me!  If--"

Kaya stretched out her hand to him, catching her breath.  "Good-bye,
Velasco--"

He turned on her fiercely, and raised his arm as if he would have
struck her: "You are cruel!" he said, crying out, "You are not a
woman!"  He caught her by the shoulders and held her, looking down into
her eyes, with his face close to hers.

"Swear it!" he cried, "Swear it if you can--if you dare!  Swear you
don't love--me."

She looked at him and her lips trembled.

"Swear it!"

She nodded.

A cry burst from his throat, like that of an animal, wounded, at bay.
His blood-shot eyes stared at her for a moment, and then he flung her
from him with all his strength and turning, dashed from the room.

The door slammed.

The girl reeled backward, putting her hands to her face.  Then, as the
echo of his footsteps died away on the stairs, she fell on her knees,
crouching and sobbing.

"He is gone!" she cried out, the words coming in little moans through
her clenched teeth.  "He is gone!  Velasco is gone!"

Her form shook in a torrent of weeping, and she took her hands from her
face and wrung them together.  "I love him!" she said, "I love him!  If
he had stayed!  No--no, I am mad!  I am cursed--cursed by the Black
Cross.  There is blood on my hands!"

She held them out before her, and they trembled and shook.  "Blood!"
she cried, "I see it--red--dripping!  It fell from his wound on my hand
and nothing will wash it away!  Nothing!"  Her voice died away to a
whisper and she knelt, staring at her hands with eyes wild and dilated:

"Not even his love," she said, "not even his love could wash it away.
It would spread--he too would be cursed.  He--too!"  Then she flung
herself on the floor and buried her head against the side of the couch,
clinging to it, with her body convulsed:

"Come back, Velasco!" she stammered, "I am weak--come back!  Put your
arms around me--kiss me again!  Don't be angry.  Don't look at me like
that!  Velasco--I won't leave you!  I--I love you!  Come back!"

She lay still, shuddering.

Outside, in the street, came the clatter of wheels passing and the
cries of a street vendor; far off came the whistle of a locomotive.
Kaya dragged herself to her feet slowly, stumbling a little.  She
passed her hands over her eyes once or twice, as if blinded; then
feebly, like one who has just recovered from a long illness, she
tottered towards the door and opened it.

Her head was bare and her curls covered it in a tangle of gold; her
jacket and trousers were old and faded, patched at the elbows, torn at
the knees.  The tears had dried on her cheeks.  She gazed ahead
steadily without looking back; and the blue of her eyes was like the
blue of the sky at night-fall, darkened and shadowy.

At the bend of the stairway she stumbled, half falling; then she
steadied herself, clinging to the balustrade with her hands--and went
on.

It was day-light, and the cocks were all crowing when Velasco returned.
When he opened the door the candle burned low in its socket, and the
sun-rays came filtering in through the windows.  The room was deserted.
He was muddy and footsore; his face looked haggard and old, and it was
lined with deep furrows.  His dark eyes were listless and weary, and
his cheeks colourless.

"Kaya," he said, "are you here?  Kaya!"

He looked on the couch, but it was empty; behind the curtains, but
there was nothing; out of the windows, but there was only the street
below.  His eyes had a dazed look.

"Kaya!" he cried.

On the floor lay a boy's cap, torn, rakish, faded with the sun and the
snow of their wanderings--a little, green cap.  Velasco stared at it
for a moment.

Then suddenly he snatched it to his lips with a sob, and buried his
head in his arms.

THE BLACK CROSS

PART II

CHAPTER XIV

Ehrestadt lies in a plain.

The walls of the old city have been leveled into broad promenades,
shaded with nut-trees, encircling the town as with a girdle of green.
Beyond, a new city has sprung up, spreading like a mushroom; but within
the girdle the streets are narrow and crooked, and the houses gabled;
leaning to one another as if seeking support for their ancient
foundations, with only a line of sky in between.

At the corner of the promenade, just where the old city and the new
city meet, is a tumble-down mill.  It is called the Nonnen-Mühle, and
it has been there ever since Ehrestadt first came into existence, as is
evident from the bulging of the walls, and the wood of the casements,
rotten and worm-eaten.  The river winds underneath it, and the great
spoked wheel turns slowly, tossing the water into a cloud of yellow
foam, flinging the spray afar into the dark, flowing stream, catching
it again; playing with it, half sportive, half fierce, like some
monster alive.

As the wheel turns, the sound of its teeth grinding is steady and
rhythmical, like a theme in the bass; and the river splashes the
accompaniment, gurgling and sighing in a minor key, as if in complaint.

It was Johannestag.[1]

The citizens of Ehrestadt were walking on the promenade, dressed in
their best; the men strutting, the women hanging on their arms, the
children toddling behind.  In the square a band was playing; the nut
trees were in full leaf, and the air was warm and sweet with the scent
of the rose buds.  The wheel of the mill had stopped.

Just under the peak of the roof was a small window gabled, with a broad
sill, and casements that opened outwards, overlooking the promenade.
The sill was scarlet with geraniums, and the window itself was grown
partly over and half smothered in a veiling of ivy.  Behind the window
was a garret, small like a cell; the roof sloping to the eaves.

There was nothing in the garret excepting a pallet-bed in the corner,
under the eaves, and in the opposite corner a box on which stood a
pitcher and basin; the basin was cracked; the pitcher was without a
handle.  On the wall hung a few articles of clothing on pegs; and the
slope of the roof was grey and misty with cob-webs.  Otherwise the
garret was bare.

Sitting by the window with her elbows on the sill, framed by the ivy
and the geraniums, was a girl.  Her head was propped in her hands, and
her hair glittered gold in the warm sun-light against the green and the
scarlet.  She was gazing eagerly over the throngs on the promenade, and
her blue eyes were alert as if searching for some one.

She was young and slim, and her gown was shabby, turned back at the
throat as if she suffered from the heat; and her hair was cropped,
lying in little tendrils of gold on her neck, curling thickly about her
ears and her brow.  Her cheeks were quite pale, and there was a pinched
look about the lips, dark shadows under the eyes.  She gazed steadily.

"If I could only see him," she murmured to herself, half aloud, "just
once--if I could see him!"  Her lip trembled a little and she caught it
between her teeth: "It is seventeen weeks--a hundred and nineteen
days--since we parted," she said, "At daybreak on Thursday it will be a
third of a year--a third of a year!"

She moved her head uneasily on her hands, and hid her eyes for a moment
against the leaves of the ivy, as if blinded by the sun-beams; "Sooner
or later he was sure to come here," she murmured, "All musicians come
here; but when I saw his face on the bill-board to-day--and his
name--!"  She crouched closer against the sill, and the leaves of the
ivy fluttered from the hurried breath that came through her lips,
shaking them as with a storm.

"If he were there on the promenade," she said, "and I saw him walking,
with his violin, his head thrown back and his eyes dreaming--Ah!"  She
drew in her breath quickly and a little twist came in her throat, like
a screw turned.  She half closed her eyes.

"Ah--Velasco!  My arms would go out to you in spite of my will; my lips
would cry to you!  I would clinch my teeth--I would pinion my arms to
my side.  I would hide here behind the casement and gaze at you between
the leaves of the geraniums--and you would never know!  You would
never--know!"

She put both hands to her bare throat as if to tear something away that
was suffocating, compelling; then she laughed: "He is an artist," she
said, "a great musician, fêted, adored; he is rich and happy.  He will
forget.  Perhaps he has forgotten already.  It would be better if he
had forgotten--already."  She laughed  again strangely, glancing about
the garret with its low eaves, and the cob-webs hanging; at the pallet,
and the cracked basin, and the pitcher with its handle missing.

The doves came flying about the mill, twittering and chirping as if
seeking for food on the sill; clinging to the ivy with their tiny, pink
claws, looking at her expectantly out of their bright, roving eyes,
pruning their feathers.  The girl shook her head:

"I have nothing for you," she said, "No--not a crumb.  The last went
yesterday.  Poor birds!  It is terrible to be hungry, to have your head
swim, and your limbs tremble, and the world grow blind and dim before
your eyes.  Is it so with you, dear doves?"

She rose slowly and a little unsteadily, crossing the garret to the
pegs where the clothes hung.

"There may be a few Pfennigs left," she said, "without touching that.
No--no, there is nothing!"

She felt in the pockets of the cloak, pressing deep into the corners
with the tips of her fingers, searching.  "No," she repeated
helplessly, "there is--nothing; still I can't touch the other--not
to-day!  I will go out and try again."

She took down the cloak from the peg and wrapped it about her, in spite
of the heat, covering her throat.  There was a hat also on the peg; she
put it on, hiding her yellow curls, and drew the veil over her face.

"If I could only get a hearing!" she said to herself, "There must be
someone in Ehrestadt, who would listen to my voice and give me an
opening.  I will try once more, and then--"

She buttoned the cloak with her fingers trembling, and went out.

"Is the Herr Kapellmeister in?"

"Yes, Madame."

The rosy cheeked maid hesitated a little, and her eyes wandered
doubtfully from the veil to the cloak and the shabby skirt.

"Kapellmeister Felix Ritter, I mean."

"He is in, Madame, but he is engaged."

"May I come in and wait?"

The maid hesitated again: "What name shall I say, Madame?"

"My name," said Kaya, "is Mademoiselle de--de Poussin."

The German words came stumbling from her lips.  She crossed the
threshold and entered a large salon, divided by curtains from a room
beyond.  There was a grand piano in the corner of the salon, and about
the walls were shelves piled high with music; propped against the piano
stood a cello.

Kaya looked at the instrument; then she sank down on the divan close to
the piano, and put out her fingers, touching it caressingly.  From the
next room, beyond the curtain, came the sound of cups rattling, and a
sweet, rich aroma as of coffee, mingling with the fragrance of cigars
freshly lighted.

The girl threw back her veil, scenting it as a doe the breeze when it
is thirsty and cannot drink.  She smiled a little, still caressing the
keys with her fingers.  "It is strange to be hungry," she said, "The
Countess Mezkarpin was never hungry!"  Then suddenly she started and
turned white to the lips, swaying forward with her eyes dilated.

From behind the curtain came voices talking together; one was harsh and
rather loud, and the other--  Kaya's eyes were fixed on the curtain;
she rose slowly from the divan and crept forward on tip-toe, a step at
a time.  The other!--She listened.  No, it was the harsh voice talking
rapidly, loudly in German, and what he was saying she could not
understand; then came the clatter of cups again, and silence, and a
fresh whiff of cigar smoke floating, wafted through the curtain.

She crept closer, still listening, her hands clasped together, the
cloak flung back from her shoulders.

"The other--there!"

She put out her hand and touched the curtain, pulling it aside
slightly, timidly, and pressing her face, her eyes to the opening.  She
was faint for a moment and could see nothing; there was a mist before
her eyes and the smoke filled the room; then gradually, out of the
mist, she saw a grey-haired man with his back to the curtain, and he
was bending forward with a coffee cup to his lips.  Beside him, facing
her, leaning far back in his chair, with his cigar poised and his eyes
half closed, his dark head pressing restlessly against the cushion was--

"Oh, my God!" she breathed, "My God, it is Velasco!"

For a moment she thought she had screamed; and she covered her eyes
waiting, sick, frightened, her heart throbbing.  Then she forgot where
she was and thought only of him, and a strange little thrill went over
her; she shivered slightly, and it seemed to her as if already she was
in his arms; and when she heard his voice, it was calling to her,
crying her name.

"Yes--yes, it is Kaya!--I am here!" she was saying, "Come to
me--Velasco!  Velasco!"

Already she was stumbling into his arms; she was clinging to him--and
then she awoke.  Her brain cleared suddenly and she knew that she had
not moved; no sound had come from her lips.  She was standing like a
statue, dumb, with her hands clasped, gazing; and Velasco lay back in
his chair with his eyes half closed, blowing a wreath from his cigar,
watching it idly as it floated away, listening as the harsh voice of
his host talked on--not five feet away!  If she stretched out her hand,
if she sighed--or moved the curtain--Ah!

She struggled with herself.  She was faint; she was weak with hunger;
she was alone and desolate--and he loved her.  She fought madly,
desperately.  It was as if two creatures were within her fighting for
life; and they both loved him.

When the one grew stronger, her eyes brightened and her pulses
quickened; it was as if she would leap through the curtain, and her
heart was sick for the touch of his hand.  Then she beat down the
longing and stifled it, and the other self came to the front and
gripped her scornfully, pointing to her hands with the blood on them,
her soul with its curse.  Was her life to mingle with his and ruin it,
and bring it to shame?

"Never," she breathed, "Never!  So long as I live!"  And the self of
her that loved him the most crushed the other self and smothered
it--strangled it.

She gazed at him through the curtain, and it seemed to her that
something within her was gasping and dying.  And suddenly she turned
and ran from the curtain, clasping her cloak to her bosom and running,
stumbling, out of the room, the house, the street.

The promenades were gay with people and crowded.  The men strutting
along in their Sunday clothes, the women hanging on their arms, the
children toddling behind.  The band was playing on the square.  It was
warm and the sun was shining; the air was sweet with the scent of the
rose buds.

Kaya fled past them all like a wraith.  They turned and stared after
her, but she was gone.  She climbed the stairs of the mill to the roof,
and opened the door, and shut it again, and fell on her knees before
the box.  The pitcher was there without a handle, and the basin
cracked.  She lifted them away and opened the box.

In it lay a velveteen jacket folded, a scarf, scarlet and spotted.
Inside the scarf lay a mass of coins, copecks, ten, twenty--hundreds of
them, and roubles round and heavy.  She fingered them tenderly, one
after the other, then thrust them aside.

"To-morrow--" she said, "I have come to that--to live on a gypsey's
wages!  I can sing no longer; I can only dance and pass the cap--and
give the copecks for bread--for bread!  I thought some day when I was
old,--when we were both old, I would show them to--Velasco, and he
would remember and laugh: 'Ah, that was long ago,' he would say, 'when
I was a boy, and you were a boy, and we tramped together through the
cold and the snow--and I loved you, and you--loved me!  Ah--it was
sweet, Kaya!  I have lived a long life since then, with plenty of fame,
and success, and happiness--and the years have been full; but nothing
quite so sweet as that!  Nothing--quite so sweet--as that!'"

She was sobbing now and staring into the box: "To-morrow," she said, "I
will buy some bread and feed the doves--and soon it will be gone!"  She
began to count the coins rapidly, dropping them through her fingers
into the scarf; and as she counted she smiled through her tears.

"We earned it together--he and I!" she said, "He played and I danced.
He would like me to live on it as long as I can, and then--after
that--he will not--blame me!"

Her body swayed slightly and she fell forward against the box.  The sun
shone on the geraniums; and on the sill, the doves pecked at the
worm-eaten casement, clinging to the ivy with their tiny claws, gazing
about with their bright, roving eyes and cooing.

Below, the water splashed against the wheel; but it was silent.

[1] St. John's day.

CHAPTER XV.

The stage of the Opera House was crowded with the chorus.  It was ten
o'clock in the morning, but the day was rainy and the light that came
from the windows at the back of the proscenium was feeble and dim, and
the House itself was quite dark.  The seats stretched out bare and
ghostly, row after row; and beyond a dark cavern seemed yawning,
mysterious and empty, the sound of the voices echoing and resounding
through spaces of silence.

In the centre of the stage stood the Conductor, mounted on a small
platform with his desk before him; and around him were the chorus,
huddled and watchful as sheep about a shepherd.  He was tapping the
desk with his baton and calling out to them, and the voices had ceased.

"Meine Herren--meine Damen!" he cried, "How you sing!  It is like the
squealing of guinea-pigs--and the tenors are false!  Mein Gott!  Stick
to the notes, gentlemen, and sing in the middle of the tone.  There
now, once more.  Begin on the D."

Kapellmeister Ritter glanced over his chorus with a fierce, compelling
motion of his baton.  He was like a general, compact and trim of figure
with a short, pointed beard, and hair also short that was swiftly
turning to grey.  The only thing that suggested the musician was the
heaviness and swelling of his brows, and the delicacy of his hands and
wrists, which were white, like a woman's, of an extraordinary
suppleness and full of power; hands that were watched instinctively and
obeyed.  The eyes of the entire chorus were fixed on them now, gazing
as if hypnotized, and hanging on every movement of his beat.

"Na--na!" he cried, "Was that F, I ask you?  You bellow like bulls!
Again--again, I tell you!  On the D and approach the note softly.

"Hist-st!--Pianissimo!"

He stamped his foot in vexation and the baton struck the desk sharply:
"Again--the sopranos alone!  Hist!  Piano--piano I say!  Potztausend!"

The chorus glanced at one another sheepishly and a flush crept over the
faces of the sopranos.  The Kapellmeister was in a bad mood to-day;
nothing suited him, and he beat the desk as if he would have liked to
strike them all and fling the baton at their heads.

"Sheep!" he said, "Oxen--cows!  You have no temperament, no
feeling--nothing--nothing!  Where are your souls?  Haven't you any
souls?  Don't you hear what I say?  Piano!  P-i-a-n-o!  When I say
piano, do I mean forte?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes flashed scornfully over the
stage and the singers.  "Now ladies, attention if you please!  Look at
me--keep your eyes on my baton!  Now--piano!"

The voices of the sopranos rose softly.

"Crescendo!"  They increased.

"Donnerwetter!  May the devil take you!  Crescendo, I say!  Crescendo!
Do you need all day to make crescendo?"  He shrieked at them; and then,
in a tempest of rage, he flung the baton down and leaped from the
platform.

"Enough!" he said, "My teeth are on edge; my ears burn!  Sit down.--Is
Fraulein Neumann here?"

A stout woman in a red blouse stepped timidly forward.

"Oh, you are, are you?  Well, Madame, you haven't distinguished
yourself so far; perhaps you will do better alone.  Have you the score?"

"Yes, Herr Kapellmeister."

"Begin then."

The soprano took a long breath and her cheeks grew red like her blouse.
She watched the eyes of the leader, and there was a light in them that
she mistrusted, a reddish glimmer that boded evil to any who crossed
him.

She began tremulously.

"Stop."

She started again.

"Your voice quavers like a jews'-harp.  What's the matter with you?"

"I don't know, Herr Kapellmeister, it was all right when I tried it
this morning."

"Well, it's all wrong now."

The soprano bit her lips: "I am doing my best, Herr Kapellmeister," she
said, "It is very difficult to take that high A without the orchestra."
Her tone was slightly defiant, but she dropped her eyes when he stared
at her.

"Humph!" he said, "Very difficult!  You expect the orchestra to cover
your shake I suppose.  Go home and study it, Madame.  Siegfried would
listen in vain for a bird if you were in the flies.  He would never
recognize that--pah!"  He waved his hand:

"Where is the Fraulein who wanted her voice tried?" he said curtly, "If
she is present she may come forward."  He took out his watch and
glanced at it.  "The chorus may wait," he said, "Look at your scores
meanwhile, meine Herren, meine Damen--and notice the marks!

"Ah, Madame."

A slim figure with a cloak about her shoulders, bareheaded, approached
from the wings; her curls, cut short like a boy's, sparkled and
gleamed.  The Kapellmeister surveyed her coldly as she drew nearer, and
then he turned and seated himself at the piano.

"Your voice," he said shortly, "Hm--what?"

"Soprano, Monsieur."

"We have enough sopranos--too many now! We don't know what to do with
them all."

The girl shivered a little under the cloak.

"Oh!" she faltered, "Then you won't hear me?"

"I never said I wouldn't hear you, Madame; I simply warned you.  If you
were alto now--but for a soprano there is one chance in a thousand,
unless--"  He struck a chord on the piano.

The chorus sat very still.  The trying of a new voice was always a
diversion; it was more amusing to watch the grilling of a victim than
to be scorched themselves; and the Kapellmeister in that mood--oh Je!
They smiled warily at one another behind their scores, and stared at
the slight, girlish figure beside the pianoforte.

She was stooping a little as if near-sighted, looking over the shoulder
of the Conductor at the music on the piano rack.

"Can you read at sight, Madame?"

"Yes," said Kaya.

"Have you ever seen this before?"

"I studied it--once."

"This?"

"I studied that too."

"So," he said, "Then you either have a voice, or you haven't, one or
the other.  Where did you study?"

The girl hesitated a moment; then she bent lower and whispered to him:
"St. Petersburg, Monsieur, with Helmanoff."

"The great Helmanoff?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"You are not French then, you are Russian?  They told me Mademoiselle
Pou--Pou--"

"That is not my real name."

"No?"

Kaya quivered a moment:  "I am--Russian," she said, "I am an exile.
Don't ask, Monsieur--not here!  I am--I am afraid."

The Kapellmeister went on improvising arpeggios on the piano as if he
had not heard.  He seemed to be pondering.  "That name--" he said,
"Pou--Poussin!  Someone called on me the other day of that name.  I
remember it, because when I came in she was gone.  Was it you?"

The girl stood silent.

He turned suddenly and looked at her: "You are young," he said, "and
too slim to have a voice.  Na--child!  You are trembling as if you had
a chill, and the House is like an oven.  Come--don't be frightened.
The chorus are owls; they can stare and screech, but they know nothing.
Sit down here by me and sing what you choose.  Let your voice out."

"Shall I sing a Russian song, Monsieur?"

"Very well."

The Kapellmeister leaned back in his chair with his arms folded.  He
gave one fierce glance at the chorus over his shoulder.  "Hush!" he
cried, "No noise if you please.  Attend to your scores, or go out.
Now, Fraulein--sing."

Kaya pushed the chair to one side and moved closer to the piano,
leaning on it and gazing out into the darkened House, at the rows of
seats, ghostly and empty, and the black cave beyond.  A Volkslied came
to her mind, one she had heard as a child and been rocked to, a peasant
song, simple and touching.  Her lips parted slightly.

For a moment there was silence; then the tones came like a breath, soft
and pianissimo, clear as the trill of a bird in the forest wooing its
mate.  It rose and fell, swelling out, filling the spaces, echoing
through the vault.

  "On the mountain-top were two little doves;
  Their wings were soft, they shimmered and shone.
  Dear little doves, pray a prayer--a prayer
  For the son of Fedotjen, Michäel--Michäel,
  For he is alone--alone."

With the last word, repeated, half whispered, the voice died away
again; and she stood there, still leaning against the piano and
clasping her hands, looking at the Kapellmeister with her blue eyes
dark and pleading, like two wells.  "Will it do?" she said with her
voice faltering, "Will you take me, Herr Director--in the chorus?"

The Kapellmeister shrugged his shoulders: "You have no voice for a
chorus," he said roughly, "Try this."

"I know," said Kaya, "My voice is not as it was.  Helmanoff--" she
laughed unsteadily, "He would be so angry if he heard me, and tell me
to study, just as you told the Mademoiselle who went out; but I will do
better, Monsieur, believe me.  I will work so hard, and my voice will
come back in time after--"  She gazed at him and a mist came over her
eyes.  "Do take me," she said, "I beg you to take me--I beg you."

The Kapellmeister passed his hand over his face: "Tschut, child!" he
said, "What are you talking about?  Be quiet now and sing this as I
tell you.  You have heard it before?"

"Yes, I have heard it."

"And sung it perhaps with Helmanoff?"

"Yes--Monsieur."

He handed her the score, running his fingers over the bird motive of
'Siegfried,' giving her the key.  Then he leaned back again and folded
his arms.

Kaya gave her head a little backward movement as if to free her throat,
and threw off the cloak, standing straight.

[Illustration: Fragment of "Siegfried"]

The tones came out like the sound of a flute, high and pure; they rose
in her throat, swelling it out as she sang, pouring through the arch of
her lips without effort or strain.

"Bravo!" cried the Director, "Um Himmel's Willen, child, you have a
voice like a lark rising in the meadows, and you sing--Bravo!  Bravo!"

He put out his hands and took the girl's trembling ones into his own.

"You will take me?" she said, "You see, when I am not so nervous it
will go better."

The Kapellmeister laughed and took a card out of his pocket: "Write
your name here," he said, "Your real one.  I won't tell--and your
address."

Kaya drew back suddenly: "I live in the mill," she said, "You know, the
Nonnen-Mühle by the promenade?  You won't let any one know, will you,
Monsieur, because--"

"Are you afraid of spies, child?  Tut, the chorus can't hear.  I won't
tell a soul."

"No one?"

"On my honour--no one.  Now, your name?"

She looked away from him a moment; then she took the pencil and wrote
on the card in small, running letters: "Marya Pulitsin."

"So that's your real name, is it?"

Her eyes were clear and blue like a child's.  "No," she said, "--no."
And she glanced back over her shoulder with her finger to her lips.

"Never mind," said the Kapellmeister.  "You are white, child, what are
you afraid of?  There are no spies here!  Give me the card.  That is a
strange place to live in--the Nonnen-Mühle!  I didn't know anyone lived
there, excepting the old man who takes charge of the mill.  Well, in a
day or so--perhaps towards the end of the week you will hear from me."
He waved to the chorus.

"Stand up, meine Herren, meine Damen!" he said, "Get your scores ready.
Good-bye now, Fraulein.--Donnerwetter!  What ails you?"

"If you want to try my voice again," said Kaya timidly, "Would you
mind, sir, trying it to-day?--This afternoon, or even this evening?"

"Now by all that is holy, why, pray?  I have the solos to-night, and
this afternoon a rehearsal for 'Siegfried.'"  The Kapellmeister
frowned: "Do you think I have nothing on earth to do, child, but run
after voices?"

"Oh!" cried Kaya, "I didn't mean that!  I beg your pardon.  It doesn't
matter--I do beg your pardon, Herr Director."  She flushed suddenly,
and started away from him, as if to put the piano between them and flee
towards the door.

He looked at her narrowly, and the harsh lines came back to his face.
"A pest on these singers!" he muttered under his breath, "They are all
alike--they want coddling.  She thinks perhaps she is a Patti and is
planning for her salary already.  Potztausend!  Bewahre!"  He turned on
his heel curtly and mounted the platform, taking up the baton.

"Now," he cried, "The D again--all together!  Pia--no!"

Kaya stole across the stage swiftly on tiptoe, threading her way
through the scenery that was standing in rows, one behind the other, in
readiness for the performance that night, and disappeared into the
wings.  It was dusty there and deserted.  An occasional stage-hand
hurried by in the distance bent on some errand, and from the back came
the sound of hammering.  The chorus was singing forte now, and the
sound filled the uttermost corner, drowning the noise of the hammer.
Kaya stood still for a moment, clinching her hands:  "My God," she
said, "I have tried the last and it has failed!  The end of the week!"
she laughed to herself bitterly.  "I know what that means.  Helmanoff
used to get rid of new pupils that way: 'You will hear,' he would say;
but they never heard."

She took a coin out of her dress and looked at it.  "The gypsies' wages
are gone," she said, "Only this left to pay for my roof and my bed!"
She laughed again and glanced about her stealthily as if fearful of
being seen, or tracked.  Then she began to breathe quickly:

"_Without weakness_," she said, "_without hesitation, or mercy, by mine
own hands if needs be_.  I have done it to another: I will do it
again--to myself.  Atone, atone--wipe out the stain!  A life for a
life!  That is right."  She swayed and caught one of the scenes for
support.  "That is--just!  God, how my throat burns, and my head, it is
dizzy--and my eyes have gone blind!  Ah, it is passing--passing!  Now I
can see.  I can--walk!"

She clung to the scenery for another second, and then pushed it away
and moved to the door, staggering a little like one who is drugged.

It was evening.  The rain had ceased, and the moon rose full and pale
with a halo about it.  In the distance clouds were gathering, and the
waters under the mill were speckled with light.

Kaya sat by the window, leaning on the sill with her arms and gazing
down at the wheel: "It is deep there," she said, "A moment of falling
through the air--a splash, and it will be over.  I am not--afraid."

She shuddered a little, and her eyes were fixed on the flashes of
silver as if fascinated.  She could not tear them away.  "How black it
is under the wheel!" she murmured, "If I fell on the spokes--"  Then
she shuddered again.

"Perhaps I shall not die," she said, "Perhaps I shall live and be
crippled, with my body broken.  Oh, God--to live like that!  I must--I
must aim for the pool beyond, where the water lies deep and the
moonlight freckles the--surface."

Then she dropped her head on her arms and the words came again: "I have
tried my best, Velasco, but the heart is gone out of me.  Don't be
angry and call me a coward.  I tried--but I am weak now and I am
afraid.  My voice is gone, and there is so little for a woman to do.  I
tried everything, Velasco, but my strength--is--failing.  If I could
walk, I would go to you and say good-bye; but I don't know where you
are.  They say you have gone and I don't know where."

She leaned a little further forward on the sill, still hiding her eyes.
"He won't know," she whispered under her breath, "He will never know.
Velasco!  Velasco--good-bye."

Her body lay across the sill now, and she opened her heavy lids and
gazed downwards, half eagerly, half fearfully.  The water was dark and
the moon-light on the surface glittered.  The wheel was below, huge and
gaunt like a spectre; silent, with its spokes dipping into the pool.

CHAPTER XVI

"Fräulein, Fräulein--open the door!  There is a gentleman here who
would speak with you!--Fräulein!"

The blows redoubled on the stout oak, growing louder and more
persistent.  "Fräulein!  It is very strange, Herr Kapellmeister.  I saw
her go in with my own eyes, some two hours back, and she has not come
out, for I was below in the mill with my pipe and my beer, sitting in
the very doorway itself, and no flutter of petticoats passed me, or I
should have heard."

The old miller rubbed his wizen cheeks and smoothed the wisps of hair
on his chin, nervously as a young man does his mustache.

"Na--!" said the Kapellmeister.  "It is late and she may be asleep.  I
came after rehearsal and it must be nine, or past.  Knock louder!"

The miller struck the oak again with his fist, calling out; and then
they both listened.  "There is no light through the key-hole," said the
miller, peeping, "only the moon-rays which lie on the floor, and when I
hark with my hand to my ear, I hear no sound but the water splashing."

The Kapellmeister paced the narrow corridor impatiently.
"Donnerwetter!" he exclaimed, "The matter is important, or I shouldn't
have come.  I must have an answer to-night.  Try the door, and if it is
unlocked, open it and shout.  You have a voice like a saw; it would
raise the dead."

The miller put his hand to the latch and it yielded: "Fräulein--!"  The
garret was in shadow, and across the floor lay the moonbeams
glittering; the casement was open, and the geraniums were outlined dark
against the sky, their colour dimmed.

"There is something in the window!" said the miller, peering; and the
door opened wider.  "There is something black across the sill; it is
lying over the geraniums and crushing them, and it looks like a woman!
Jesus--Maria!"

He took a step forward, staring: "It is the Fräulein, and she is--"

"Get out of the way, you fool!" cried the Kapellmeister sharply, and he
pushed the man back and strode forward: "The child has fainted!  She
lies here with her head on her arms, and her cheek is white as the moon
itself."

He lifted her gently and put his arm under her shoulders, supporting
her: "Get some Kirsch at once," he cried to the miller, "Stop gaping,
man!  She's not dead I tell you--her heart flutters and the pulse in
her wrist is throbbing!"  He slipped his hand in his pocket, and tossed
the miller a gulden.  "Now run," he said, "run as if the devil were
after you.  The Rathskeller is only a square away!  Brandy and
food--food, do you hear?"

The old man caught the gulden greedily between his fingers, and
examined it for a moment, weighing it.  "I will go," he mumbled,
"certainly I will go.  Kirsch--you say, sir, and bread perhaps?"

"Be off, you fool!"

The Kapellmeister watched the door grimly as it shut behind the miller,
and then he glanced about the garret.  "Poor," he said, "Humph!  A
place for a beggar!"  His eyes roved from the pallet in the corner to
the pitcher and the basin, the clothes on the pegs, the cobwebs
hanging, the geraniums crushed on the sill.

Then he lifted the girl's head and held it between his hands, looking
down at her face, supporting her in his arms.  The lashes lay heavy on
her cheeks and the tendrils of hair, curly and golden, lay on her neck
and her forehead.  Her throat was bare; it was white and full.  The
Kapellmeister held her gently and a film came over his eyes as he gazed:

"How young she is!" he murmured, "like some beautiful boy.  Her chin is
firm--there is will power there.  Her brows are intelligent; her whole
personality is one of feeling and temperament.  It is a face in a
thousand.  What is her name, her history?  How has she suffered?  Why
is she alone?  There are lines of pain about the mouth--the eyes!"

He raised her suddenly in his arms and started to his feet; and as he
did so, she opened her lids slowly and gazed at him.  "Velasco--" she
murmured.

Her voice was low and feeble, and the Kapellmeister bent his head
lower: "What is it, child?" he said, "I can't hear you.  In a moment
you will have some brandy in your throat and that will rouse you.  I
will carry you now to that pallet over yonder, a poor place, no doubt,
and hard as a board."

He strode across the floor and laid the girl gently on the bed,
smoothing the pillow, and covering her lightly with the blanket.  Kaya
opened her eyes again, and put out her hands as if seeking someone.

"I was falling," she said, "Why did you bring me back?"

The Kapellmeister sat down by the edge of the bed and began to whistle
softly; he whistled a theme once, and then he repeated it a semi-tone
higher.  "I suspected as much," he said, "Was it because you had no
money?"

Kaya turned her face away.

"Were you starving?--Tschut!  You needn't answer.  Your eyes show it.
I might have seen for myself this morning, if I had not been in a
temper with the chorus, and my mind absorbed in other matters.  Be
still now, here is the miller--the dotard!"

The Kapellmeister went over to the door, and took from the old man a
small flask and a newspaper wrapping some rolls.  "So," he said grimly,
"Now go, and keep the rest of the gulden for yourself.  No thanks!
Pischt--be off!  Go back to your doorway and finish your beer, do you
hear me?  I will look after the Fräulein; she is conscious now, and I
have business with her."  He motioned the old man back from the door
and closed it behind him; then he returned to the pallet.  "I'm not
much of a nurse," he said, "You will have to put up with some
awkwardness, child; but there--raise your head a little, so--and lean
on my shoulder!  Now drink!"

Kaya swallowed a few drops of the brandy.  "That is enough," she said
faintly.

"No.--Drink!"

He held the glass to her lips, and she obeyed him, for his hands were
strong and his eyes compelled her.  Then he broke the roll, and dipped
it into the brandy, and fed her piece by piece.  When she tried to
resist him, he said "Eat, child--eat!  Do as I tell you--eat!" and held
it to her mouth until she yielded.

She thought of Velasco and how he had fed her in the studio, and the
pulse in her wrist beat quicker.  When she had finished the roll, he
put down the glass and the newspaper, and she felt his eyes searching
hers, keen and sharp, two daggers, as if they would pierce through her
secret.

"Don't speak," he said curtly, "Listen to me and answer my questions:
Why were you discouraged?  I told you this morning you would hear from
me; why didn't you wait?"

The tears rose slowly into Kaya's eyes, and she hid her face in the
pillow.

"You didn't believe me," said the Kapellmeister, "but you see I was
better than my word--I have come myself.  Why do you suppose I have
come?"

She lay silent.

"If I hadn't come," he said grimly, "You would be lying in that pool
yonder, by now, broken to pieces against the wheel; and I should have
sought for my bird in vain."  He saw how the pillow rose and fell with
her breath, and how she listened.

"I wanted a bird for my Siegfried on Saturday," he went on, "Some one
to sit far aloft in the flies and sing, as you sang this morning, high
and pure, in the middle of the tone.  Helmanoff has trained you well,
child, you take the notes as if nature herself had been your teacher.
Neumann is gone; she screeches like an owl!  Elle a son congé!"  He
continued to look at the pillow and the gold curls spread across it.

"Will you come and be my bird, child?  I suppose you can't act as yet;
but up in the flies you will be hidden, and only your prototype will
flutter across the stage on its wires.  When I heard you this morning,
I said to myself: 'Ha--my bird at last!  Siegfried's bird!'"

He laughed softly, and bent over and stroked the curls: "I came
to-night because the Neumann went off in a huff.  She made a scene at
rehearsal, or rather I did.  I told her to go and darn stockings for a
living, and she seemed to resent it!"  He paused for a moment.
"Saturday is only day after to-morrow--and we have no bird!"

The girl lay motionless, and the Kapellmeister went on stroking her
curls.  "If you sing, you will be paid, you know!" he said, "and then
you need not try to kill the poor bird for lack of a crumb.  Why didn't
you tell me this morning, little one?"

Kaya raised her head feebly and gazed at him: "My voice is gone!" she
said, "My voice is--gone!"

"Bah!" said the Kapellmeister, "With a throat like that!  It is only
beginning to come.  The Lehmann's voice was as yours in her youth,
light at first and colorature; and it grew!  Mein Gott, how it grew and
deepened, and swelled, and soared!--Get strong, child, and your voice
will ripen like fruit in the sun."

He stooped over the pillow and looked into her eyes: "Come, child," he
said, "Will you be my bird?  Promise me!  You won't think of that
again--I can trust you?  If I leave you now--"

Kaya put out her hands and clung to him suddenly, clasping his arm with
her fingers.  "I won't," she said, "I will live, and study, and do my
best--and some day you think I shall be a singer?  Oh, tell me truly!
That is just what Helmanoff said, but when I asked them to hear me--I
went to so many, so many!--they were always engaged, or--"  She caught
her breath a little, stumbling over the words: "You think so--truly?"

"I think so truly," said the Kapellmeister, "You must come to see me at
the Opera-House to-morrow and rehearse your part, and I will teach you.
You shall have your honorarium to-night in advance; and you must eat
and grow strong."

"I will," said Kaya.

There was a new resolve in her tone, fresh hope, and she put her hand
to her throat instinctively, as if to imprison the voice inside and
keep it from escaping.

"Has the miller gone?" she asked.

"Yes," said Ritter, "He is gone and the door is closed; we are alone."

"Then put your head lower," whispered the girl, "and I will tell you.
Perhaps, when you--know!"

"Go on," said the Kapellmeister, "I am here, child, close to you, and
no one shall hurt you.  Don't tremble."

"Do you see my hands?" said the girl, "Look at them.  They are stained
with blood--stained with--  Ah, you draw away!"

"Go on," said Ritter, "You drew away yourself, child.  What do you
mean?  What could you do with a hand like that, a rose leaf?  Ha!"  He
laughed and clasped it with his own to give her courage: "Go on."

"You are not Russian," said the girl, "so you can't understand.  When
one is not Russian--to be an anarchist, to kill--that is terrible,
unpardonable!  But with us--My father is Mezkarpin," she whispered,
"You have heard of him--yes?  The great General, the friend of the
Tsar!  And I am the Countess Kaya, his--his daughter!"

Her voice broke, and she was silent for a moment, leaning against the
pillow.  Then she went on:

"There is a society," she whispered, "in St. Petersburg.  It is called
'The Black Cross'; and whosoever is a member of that order must obey
the will of the order; and when they pass judgment, the sentence must
be fulfilled.  They are just and fair.  When a man, an official, has
sinned only once, they pass him by; but when he has committed crime
after crime, they take up his case and deliberate together, and he is
judged and condemned.  Sometimes it is the sentence of death, and
then--" she hesitated, "and then we draw lots.  The lot fell to--me."

She shut her eyes, and as the Kapellmeister watched her face, he saw
that it was convulsed in agony, and the boyish look was gone.

"He was warned," she whispered, "three times he was warned, according
to rule, and I--I killed him."  The lines deepened in her face, and she
half rose, leaning on her elbow, staring straight ahead of her as
though at a vision, her lips moving:

"_In the name of the Black Cross I do now pledge myself an instrument
in the service of Justice and Retribution.  On whomsoever the choice of
Fate shall fall, I vow the sentence of death shall be fulfilled, by
mine own hands if needs be, without weakness, or hesitation, or mercy;
and if by any untoward chance this hand should fall, I swear--I swear,
before the third night shall have passed, to die instead--to
die--instead._"

She struggled up on the bed, kneeling.

"I killed him!" she cried in a whisper, "I killed him!  I see him lying
on the floor there--on his face!  There--there!  Look!  With his arms
outstretched--and the blood in a pool!"

She was leaning forward over the edge of the bed, staring with her eyes
dilated, pointing into the shadows and shuddering:

"Don't you see him--there?"

The Kapellmeister was white and his hands shook.  He took her strongly
by the shoulders.  "Lie down," he said, "You are dreaming.  There is
nothing there.  Look me in the eyes!  I tell you there is nothing
there, and your hands are not stained.  Lie down."

Kaya gazed at him for a moment in bewilderment: "Where am I?" she said,
passing her hand over her eyes.  "Who are you?  I thought you were--
Why no, I must have been dreaming as you say."

"The hunger has made you delirious," said the Kapellmeister: "Look me
in the eyes as I tell you, and I will smooth away those lines from your
forehead.  Sleep now--sleep!"

The girl sank reluctantly back on the pillows and the Kapellmeister sat
beside her, his gaze fixed on hers with a strained attention,
unblinking.  He was passing his hand over her forehead slowly and
lightly, scarcely touching her: "Sleep--" he said, "Sleep."

Her lids wavered and drooped slowly, and she sighed and stirred against
the pillows, turning on her side.

"Sleep--" he said.

The garret was still, and only the moonbeams danced on the floor.  The
doves in the eaves slept with their heads tucked under their wings, and
the spiders were motionless in the midst of the webs; only the water
was splashing below.

The Kapellmeister watched the girl on the pallet.  He sat leaning back
with his arms folded, his head in the shadow, and his face was grim.
"She will sleep now," he said to himself, "sleep until I wake her.  She
is young and strong, and there is no harm done; but she has had some
fearful shock, and it has shaken her like a slender birch struck by a
storm.  I will send my old Marta, and she will look after her--poor
little bird!"

Kaya lay on her side with her face half turned to the pillow; her cheek
was flushed and her breath came gently through the arch of her lips.
Her curls were like a halo about her, and her right hand lay on the
blanket limp, small and white with the fingers relaxed.

"I am getting to be an old man," said the Kapellmeister to himself,
"and my heart is seared; but if I had a daughter, and she looked like
that--I would throw over the Tsar and all his kingdom.  The great
Juggernaut of Autocracy has gone over her, and her wings are bruised.
It is only her voice that can save her now."

He rose to his feet slowly, and in the dim light of the moon his hair
was silvered, and he seemed weary and worn.  He stood by the pallet,
looking down at the slim, still figure for a moment; and his hand stole
out and touched a strand of her hair.  Then he covered her gently.
"Sleep," he said, "Sleep!"  And he turned and went out, closing the
door.

CHAPTER XVII

"Is it only a week that I have been ill, Marta?  It seems like a month."

"A week and a day, Fräulein; but you are better now, and to-morrow, the
Doctor says you shall go out on the promenade and smell of the rose
buds."

Kaya was half lying, half seated on the pallet, with her hands clasped
behind her head; she was dressed in a blue gown, worn and shabby but
spotlessly neat, and her throat and her arms were bare.  "But how soon
can I sing, Marta?  Did he say when?  Did you hear him?"

The old nurse sat by the bed-side, knitting and counting her stitches
aloud to herself from time to time.

"One--two--four--seven!" she mumbled, "Sing, Fräulein?  Ah, who can
tell!  You are weak yet."

"No," said Kaya, "I am strong; see my arms.  I can stand up quite well
and walk about the room with the help of your shoulder; you know I can,
Marta."

The old woman gave her a glance over her spectacles: "Seven--ten!" she
repeated, "If it were your spirit, Fräulein, you would be Samson
himself; but your body--"  She shook her head: "Na, when the master
comes, ask him yourself.  It is he who has talked with the Doctor, not
I."

"He is coming now," said Kaya.  "I hear his step on the stairs, quick
and firm like his beat.  Don't you hear it, Marta?--Now he has stopped
and is talking with the miller."  She leaned back on the pillows and
her eyes watched the door.

"Eh, Fräulein!  Nein, I hear nothing!  What an ear you have--keen as a
doe's when the wind is towards her!  At home, in the forest, where the
deer run wild and they come in the dawn to the Schneide to
graze--whischt!  The crackle of a leaf and they are off flying, with
their muzzles high and their eyes wild.  Na!  I hear nothing but the
wheel below grinding and squeaking, and the splash of the water."

"He is coming up the stairs," cried Kaya, "Open the door for him,
Marta, and let the Kapellmeister in."

The old woman rolled up her knitting slowly: "It was just at the turn
of the chain," she grumbled, "and I have lost a stitch in the counting.
The master can come in by himself."

Kaya gave a gleeful laugh like a child, and slipped her feet to the
floor: "Oh, you cross Marta, you dear humbug!" she cried, "As if you
wouldn't let the master walk over you and never complain!  Go on with
that wonderful muffler of his, and I will let him in myself.  No, don't
touch me!  Let me go alone and surprise him."

She steadied herself with her hand to the bed-post, then caught at the
chair: "Don't touch me--Marta!  I am quite strong--now, and able
to--walk!"

A knock came on the door, and she made a little run forward and opened
it, clinging to the handle.

"Du himmlische Güte!" exclaimed the Kapellmeister, "If the bird isn't
trying its wings!  Behüte, child!"  He put a strong arm about her,
looking down at her sternly and shaking his head: "Do you call this
obedience?" he said grimly, "I thought I told you not to leave that
couch alone--eh?"

"Don't scold me," said Kaya, "I feel so well to-day, and there is
something leaping in my throat.  Herr Kapellmeister--it is begging to
come out; let me try to sing, won't you?" She clung to his arm and her
eyes plead with him: "Don't scold me.  You have put 'Siegfried' off
twice now because you had no bird.  Let me try to-day."

The Kapellmeister frowned.  Her form was like a lily swaying against
the trunk of an oak.

"Tschut--" he said, "Bewahre!  Marta, go down and bring up her soup.
When your cheeks are red, child, and the shadows are gone from under
your eyes, then we will see."

Kaya pushed away his arm gently, and there was a firmness about her
chin as of a purpose new-born.  "You have paid for my lodging and my
food, Herr Kapellmeister," she said proudly, "You have sent me your own
servant, and she has been to me like a foster mother.  You have cared
for me, and the Doctor and the medicines are all at your cost."  She
steadied herself, still rejecting his hand, "And I--" she said, "I have
earned nothing; I have been like a beggar.  If you will not let me
sing, Herr Kapellmeister, then--"

He looked at her for a moment in a wounded way and his brow darkened:
"Well--?" he said.

"Then you must take away your servant and the Doctor, and--and your
kindness," said Kaya bravely, "and let me starve again."

"You are proud--eh?  You remember that you are a Countess?"  The
Kapellmeister laughed harshly.

"I am not a Countess any more," said Kaya, "but I am proud.  Will you
let me sing?"

"When you are strong again and your voice has come back," he returned
dryly, "you can sing, and not before.  As for paying your debts--
There is time enough for that.  Now will you have the goodness to
return to the couch, Fräulein, or do you prefer to faint on the floor?"

Kaya glanced at the stern face above her, and her lip quivered: "You
are angry," she said, "I have hurt you.  I didn't mean to hurt you."

"The Doctor will be in presently," continued Ritter coldly, "I daresay
he can restore you, if you faint, better than I.  Perhaps you will obey
his orders as you reject mine."  There was something brutal in the tone
of his voice that stung the girl like a lash.  She turned and tottered
back to the couch, the Kapellmeister following, his arms half extended
as if to catch her if she fell; but she did not fall.  He was still
frowning, and he seemed moody, distraught.  "Shall I cover you?" he
said.

Kaya put out her hand timidly and touched his: "You have been so kind
to me," she whispered, "Every day you have come, and when I was
delirious I heard your voice; and Marta told me afterwards how you sat
by the bed and quieted me, and put me to sleep.--Don't be angry."  All
of a sudden she stooped and put her lips to his sleeve.

He snatched his hand away roughly.  "You have nothing to be grateful
for," he cried, "Pah!  If a man picks up a bird with a broken wing and
nurses it to life again for the sake of its voice, is that cause for
gratitude?  I do it for my own ends, child.  Tschut!"  He turned his
back on her and went over to the window.  "If you want to know when you
can sing, ask the Doctor.  If he says you may--"

"You are still angry," said Kaya, "Don't be angry.  If you don't want
me to sing, I will lie here as you tell me and--try to get stronger."
She moved her head restlessly on the pillow, "Yes--I will!"

Ritter began to strum on the window-panes with his strong fingers: "The
Doctor is here," he said, "ask him.  I don't want you breaking down and
spoiling the opera, that is all.  The rest is nothing to me.  Come in!"
There was a certain savageness in his tone, and he went on strumming
the motive on the panes.  "Come in, Doctor."

The door opened and a young man came forward.  He was short of stature,
and slight, with spectacles, and he stooped as if from much bending
over folios.

"My patient is up?" he said.

"Walking about the room!" interrupted the Kapellmeister curtly.

The Doctor sat down by the pallet and took the girl's wrist between his
fingers: "Why does it throb like this?" he said, "What is troubling
you?"

"I want to sing," persisted Kaya defiantly, "If I sit in the flies with
cushions behind me, and only a small, small part--couldn't I do it,
Doctor?"

The young man glanced at the Kapellmeister's rugged shoulders, and
shrugged his own: "Why should it hurt you?" he said, "You have a throat
like a tunnel, and a sounding board like the arch of a bridge.  Your
voice should come tumbling through it like a stream, without effort.
Don't tire yourself and let the part be short; it may do you good."

Kaya's eyes began to glisten and sparkle: "It is only the bird's part!"
she cried, "and I am hidden in the flies, so no one can see me.  Ah--I
am happy!  I am well, Doctor--you have made me well!"

Presently the old woman brought in the soup and the Doctor rose: "Will
you come with me, Herr Kapellmeister?" he said, "We can smoke below in
the mill, while the Fräulein eats.  I have still a few minutes."

Then the Kapellmeister left the window, and the two men went out
together.

"Marta!" cried the girl, "I can sing!  Did you hear him say it?  Give
me the soup quickly, while it is hot.  I feel so strong--so well!"

She began taking the soup with one hand, and rubbing her cheek with the
other: "Now, isn't it red, Marta?  Look--tell me!  Nurse, while you
knit, tell me--did you see how angry he was, and how he went out
without a word?  It is he himself who asked me to sing, so why should
he be angry now?"