The office of the Polkovnik was small and narrow, low, with ceiling and walls hewn out of the rock. At one end was a window barred, looking out upon a court; at the opposite end the door. On either side of the door stood a soldier in Cossack uniform, huge fellows, sabred, with their helmets belted under their chins, and their fierce, black eyes staring straight ahead, scarcely blinking.
In the centre of the room was a table, and before the table an officer seated, also in uniform, but his head was bare and his helmet lay on the litter of papers at his elbow. He had a long, ugly face with a swarthy complexion, and eyes that were sharp and cold like steel, piercing as the point of a rapier and cruel. He was tossing the litter of papers impatiently, examining one after another at intervals, then pushing them back. He was evidently waiting, and as he waited he swore to himself under his breath, glancing from time to time at the Cossacks; but they stood stiff and immovable like marble, looking neither to right nor to left. Presently the officer leaned forward and touched a bell on the table.
"There is no use waiting any longer," he said curtly, "Bring them in."
The hammer of the bell was still tinkling when the door swung back suddenly on its hinges and two people, a man and a woman, were half led, half dragged into the room; the Cossacks prodding them on with the blunt edge of their sabres.
"Brr—" said the officer sharply.
In a flash the Cossacks had leaped to their niches, their forms rigid and motionless, only the tassels on their helmets quivering slightly to show that they had stirred. The man and the woman were left beside the table.
"Your names?" demanded the officer, "The woman first."
The girl drew herself up wearily; her face was wan in the morning light, and her hair fell about her shoulders, dishevelled, a bright golden mass, curling about her forehead and ears in little rings and spirals like the tendrils of a vine. Her eyes were proud and she looked the officer full in the face, her hands clenched. Her voice rang full and scornful.
"My name is the Countess Kaya and I am the daughter of General Mezkarpin. What have you to say to me?"
"We have a good deal to say to you, Madame," retorted the Cossack, "if it is true that you are the Countess. I never saw her myself, but the Chief will be here presently. He knows her very eye-lashes, and if you have lied—"
"I have not lied," cried the girl, "How dare you speak to me like that! Send for my father, do you hear me? At once! The General Mezkarpin." She repeated the name distinctly and her shoulders stiffened, her blue eyes flashed. "A friend of the Tsar as you are aware. Be careful! What you do, what you say, every act, every word shall be reported to him."
"If you have not lied," continued the Cossack smoothly, "it will be still worse for you, far worse!" He began smiling to himself and twirling his mustache. "If it is true, this report, I doubt if you leave here alive, Madame, unless it is for the Mines. You have an ugly crime at your door. How you ever escaped is a wonder! The Chief has been on your track for some time, but he was late as usual; he is always slow about arresting the women, especially if they are—"
The Cossack showed his teeth suddenly in a loud laugh, leering at the slim, young figure before him. The girl blanched to the lips.
"A crime!" she said, "What crime?"
Then she put out her hand slowly, shrinkingly, and touched the figure beside her as if to make sure that he was there.
The man was standing dazed, staring from the girl to the Cossack and back again. Mezkarpin's daughter, the great Mezkarpin, the friend of Nicholas! And accused of—what? It was a mistake—nothing! He passed his hand over his eyes.
"Is this woman your wife?" said the officer shortly, "Answer."
"She is my wife."
"Where are the papers?"
The man unbuttoned his coat and felt in his breast pocket, the left, the right; then the pockets of his vest.
"I have them here, somewhere," he stammered, "Where in the devil! They were here last night!"
He felt again desperately. "They seem to be gone! What can have become of them? I put them here—here!" He searched again.
"Curious!" said the official, "Ha ha!"
The prisoner stared at him for a moment blinking. "You impudent scoundrel!" he cried, "She is my wife, papers or no papers. Ask her!—Kaya!"
The girl held herself straight and aloof. She was gazing down at the litter of papers on the table; her face was white and her lips were clenched in her teeth.
"Kaya—tell him! The papers are lost! God, they are gone somehow! Tell him—"
The girl released her lip and her voice came out suddenly, ringing, clear as if the room had been large and the Cossack deaf; it seemed to burst from her throat.
"I am not his wife," she said, "He is mistaken. He is telling you that out of kindness. Monsieur is a stranger to me, until last night a perfect stranger. I don't know him at all. Don't believe what he says. You see for yourself there are no papers. Is it likely?"
The tones of her voice seemed to die away suddenly and a drop of blood oozed from her lip. She wiped it away and clinched her teeth again, fiercely, as if hedging her words.
"Kaya!" cried the man. "She is my wife, I tell you, she is my wife! The priest married us. I can prove it."
"Silence," cried the Cossack. "What do we care if you are married or not. You will be imprisoned anyway for meddling in a matter that does not concern you. Silence, I tell you. Answer my questions. What is your name?"
"My name is Velasco."
"Ha—the musician?"
"Yes."
"Very good! Try again. There is only one Velasco in Russia, as every one knows, and he isn't here. Your name? Tell the truth if you can."
"My name is Velasco."
"The devil it is!" cried the Cossack, "Ha ha!—You two make a pair between you. Velasco! The Wizard of the bow! The one all Russia is mad over! Ye saints! I would give my old cavalry boots to have heard him. Bah—you anarchist dog! Now, damn you, answer me straight or I'll make you. Your name?"
The Cossack leaned over the desk, his eyes blazing fiercely, shaking his fist. "No nonsense now; do you think we can't prove it? Quick—your name?"
The prisoner folded his arms and stared up at the cross-barred window, half closing his eyes. The brows seemed to swell, to weigh down the lids.
"Will you answer or not?"
Velasco swayed a little and a dark gleam shot out between the slits: "If I had been brought up a soldier," he said, "instead of a musician, I should take pleasure in knocking you down; as it is, my muscles were trained to much better purpose. This interview, sir, is becoming unpleasant. I will trouble you to send for my Stradivarius at once. Some of your men stole it, I fancy, last night. It is worth its weight twice over in gold. There is not another like it in the country, perhaps in the world. The next time his majesty, the Tsar, requests my presence, I shall inform him that the violin is here in his fortress, stolen by a slovenly, insolent official, who doesn't know a violin from a block of wood, or a note from a pin head." His eyes drooped again. The Cossack examined him narrowly.
"If you are Velasco," he said after a little, "Khoroshó[1]! then prove it. There was a case brought in last night, it might have been a fiddle. Brr—Ivanovitch, go for it. No. 17,369, in the third compartment, by the wall. That isn't a bad idea!" He rubbed his hands together and laughed, showing his teeth like a wolf: "There is only the one Velasco and I know a thing or two about music in spite of your impudence. You can't cheat me." He laughed loud and long.
Velasco stood imperturbable, his arms folded; he seemed to be dreaming, his mind far away. The words fell on his ear like drops of water on a roof, rolling off, leaving no sign.
The girl looked up at him and her lips quivered slightly. She pressed them with her handkerchief and again a drop of blood blotted the white; then she drew them in with her teeth and drooped her head wearily, the confusion of her hair encircling it like a framing of gold, veiling her brow and her cheeks.
"Ah, here is Ivanovitch," cried the Cossack, "and here is the fiddle. Now, for a lark! Brr—Milikai, go for the Colonel, he is musical—ha ha! No, stop! I will keep the fun to myself. Shut the door. Is the Chief here yet?"
"No, Gospodin."
"Sapristi! Never mind, shut the door—shut the door!"
Velasco roused suddenly. He looked about him, dazed for a moment; then he sprang forward, attacking the Cossack and tearing the case from his hands. His eyes were bright and eager; his voice coming in little leaps from his throat, full of joy and relief.
"My violin, my treasure! My beloved, give it to me! You brute, you great hulking savage, if it is damaged or broken, I'll kill you! Out of my way! Let it go—or I'll strike you!—Let go!"
He snatched the case to his breast and carried it over to the table, opening it, unfolding the wrappings. They were silken and heavy. The violin lay swathed in them, the glossy arch of its body glistening yellow, golden and resinous. He touched it tenderly, lifting it, examining it, absorbed, engrossed, like a mother a child that has been bruised.
The official stared at him in amazement; the Cossacks gaped under their helmets. The girl watched him with wistful eyes. She understood. It was the artist-temperament in full command. The man had vanished, the musician was in possession. He was rocked by it, swayed, overpowered, a slave. His eyes saw nothing; his ears heard nothing; his mind was a whirl, a wonderful chaos of sound, of colour, of notes dancing, leaping.
The bow was in his hand, the violin was on his breast. He closed his eyes, swaying, pressing it to his cheek. The eyes of the girl filled with tears. It was just as he had said. He was talking to it and it was answering him, softly at first, faint and low, his fingers scarcely touching the strings; then the tones burst out, full, radiant, like a bud into bloom, rushing, soaring, echoing up to the walls of the room, striking the stone, bounding back, dying away. He was drunk, he was mad; he was clasping the thing, forcing it, pressing it, swaying it, and the strings leaped after his will.
She fell back against the wall, steadying herself, and her eyes drank in the sight of him as her ears the sound—the slight, swaying figure, the dark head bowed with his hair like a mane, the arm with the bow, the abandon of the wrist, the white, flashing fingers. She drew a quick breath.
The official sat open-mouthed. The cruelty had gone from his face, the sharp, steely look from his eyes. He was grasping the desk with both hands, leaning forward, staring as one who is benumbed, hypnotized.
Velasco played as he had never played before. He was playing for his life, his identity, his freedom; and suddenly into the tones crept another consciousness, subtle at first, scarcely heard, something fragile and weak, new born as if struggling for breath. He stopped and passed his hand over his eyes, dropping the bow. Where was he! What had happened! Was it his life, or hers, he was playing to save?—Oh God!
He gazed at her across the room, into the two deep wells of her eyes, and again his muscles swelled, his chin stiffened. He stood there gazing, struggling with himself; his one personality against the other; the hair falling over his brows, the violin clasped in his arms.
Suddenly there came a knock at the door.
The Cossack gave a long sigh. He went up to Velasco slowly and took his hand, the hand with the bow.
"Great heaven!" he cried, "I am exhausted, I am limp as a rag! There is not another soul in Russia, in the world, who can play like that! You are marvellous, wonderful! All they said was too little. Monsieur—there is no further doubt in my mind, I ask your forgiveness. You are, you can be no other than he—Velasco."
The knock was repeated.
"Come in!" cried the Cossack. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat: "Come in!"
The door opened and General Mezkarpin strode into the room, followed by the Chief of the Third Section. The Cossacks saluted with their hands stiffly laid to their helmets; the officer stepped forward to meet them, bowing. All the assurance was gone from his manner; he was now the servant, the soldier in the presence of his superior. The General waved him aside. His face was florid and red; he was a large man, heavy, with prominent features, and his sword clanked against the stone of the floor as he moved. The girl was still leaning against the wall.
When she saw him she gave a little cry and sprang forward, stretching out her hands: "Father!" she cried, "Father!" And then she stopped suddenly and clasped her hands to her breast.
"Is this the woman you meant?" said the General, turning to Boris. He spoke as if he were on the parade-ground, every word sharp, caustic, staccato.
"Right, left, shoulder arms, march!"—"Is this the woman?"
"It is, General."
"She was in the Duke's room?"
"She was."
"You found her in the train?"
"In the train, last night, with this man."
"You say she is an anarchist?"
"We have known it for some time, sir."
The face of the General turned purple suddenly and the rims of his eyes were red like blood. He approached the girl and stood over her, his fists clenched, as if he would have struck her, controlling himself with a difficult effort.
"You heard?" he said, still more sharply, every word rolling out apart, detached. "Is it true? Are you mixed up with this infernal Revolutionary business? My daughter! An anarchist against the Tsar? Look me in the eyes and answer. May all the curses of heaven strike you if it is true."
The girl looked him in the eyes, her blue ones veiled and dark, gazing straight into the blood-rimmed ones above her. "It is true," she said, "I am an anarchist."
The purple tint spread over the face of the General, turning crimson in blotches. His limbs seemed to tremble under his weight; his fist came nearer.
"You fired the shot?" he cried, "You! Answer me, on your soul—the truth. It was you who murdered the Grand-Duke Stepan? You?"
The girl's face grew slowly whiter and whiter; the gold of her hair fell about her, her lips were parted and quivering. Still she looked at him and signed an assent.
"You—you shot the Grand-Duke?"
Her lips moved and she bowed her head.
The General stood paralyzed with horror. He was like one on the verge of apoplexy; his tongue stammered, his limbs refused to move. Then he drew back slowly, inch by inch, and stared at the girl with the anger and passion growing in his eyes.
"You are no daughter of mine!" he cried stammering, "You are a murderess, a criminal! You have killed the Grand-Duke—in his own house you have killed him!"
"Father!—Father!"
He gasped and put his hand to his throat. "Be still! I am not your father. You are no child of mine. I curse you—with my last breath I curse you.—Do with her as you like."
He turned to the Chief, staggering like a drunken man, panting. "Take her away—Take her out of my sight. Send her to Siberia, to the Mines—anywhere! Let her pay the uttermost penalty! Let her die! She is nothing to me!—Curse her!—Curse her!—Curse her!"
The Chief made a sign to the Cossacks and they sprang forward, one on either side of the girl. She shrank back.
"Father!" she cried.
"Chórt vozmí, I am not your father! Take her away, I tell you." With a stifled oath the General flung his hands to his head and rushed from the room.
Velasco still stood dazed, clasping his violin. He was shivering as though he had a chill, and the roughness, the brutality of the words, the slamming of the door, went through him like a knife. He dropped his violin on the litter of papers.
"By heaven!" he cried, "What a terrible thing! What brutes you all are! She is my wife—mine! No matter what she has done, she is my wife. Let go of her you savages!—Kaya! Help her, some of you—don't let them take her! They are dragging her away!—Kaya! Stop them—stop them!"
He was struggling like a madman in the arms of the official, fighting with all his strength; but the muscles of the Cossack were like iron, they held him in a vice. The Chief sprang forward. They held him, and the girl was dragged from the room, brutally, roughly with blows.
She looked back over her shoulder and her eyes, with a strange, tense look, gazed deep into Velasco's. They were dark and blue, full of anguish. Her whole soul was in them; they were beseeching him, they were thanking him, they were saying goodbye. He struggled towards her. A moment—and she was gone.
The great door swung back on its hinges, the latch clicked.
A faint, low cry came back from the distance.
Velasco's arms dropped to his side and he stared fiercely from one official to the other. He tried to speak and could not. The cry came back to him, and as he heard it, his throat throbbed, his heart seemed to stop beating.
"You can go now," said the official. "We know who you are, and there is nothing against you."
He whispered something to the Chief. They handed him his violin and his case with its wrappings, and led him to the door. He followed them out, up the winding steps, through the passages, out into the court, stumbling blindly.
"You can go—there is nothing against you."
He walked straight on with his head bent forward, his eyes on the ground. He clasped the violin in one hand, the case with the other. He was shivering.
The cry followed him out into the street. It rang in his ears. Her eyes were gazing into his with a strange tenseness. He could feel them. He was dumb, he was helpless.
Oh God—the cry again! It was low, it was faint, it was broken with pain. He stumbled on.
[1] Very well.
"Is Monsieur Velasco in?"
"He is, sir."
"Tell him his manager, Galitsin, is here and must speak to him at once."
"Very well, Bárin, but—he is composing. He has been composing for days—Monsieur knows?"
"I know," said the Manager.
He was a short, thick-set man with crisp, curly hair, a wide mouth, a blunt nose, and eyes that twinkled perpetually as though at some inward joke that he did not share with the rest of the world; they twinkled now and he snapped his fingers.
"Go ahead, Bobo, you coward. If he insists on hurling a boot at your head, why dodge it—dodge it! Or wait, stay where you are. I will announce myself."
The old servant retreated with alacrity down the hallway, stepping lightly as if on eggs with his finger on his lips, while the Manager opened the Studio door softly, without knocking, and closed it behind him.
Before the fire-place, with his back to the door, sat Velasco. His shoulders were bent, his head was in his hands; he was motionless. The Manager cleared his throat slowly with emphasis:
"Eh, Velasco, is that you?"
The young Musician leaped to his feet as if struck by a blow, and faced the intruder angrily, tossing the hair away from his brows. His face was pale, as of one who has watched instead of sleeping, and his eyes were haggard and bloodshot.
"A hundred devils take you!" he cried, "What are you doing here? I told Bobo to keep people out, the treacherous rascal! For heavens sake go and leave me in peace; I tell you Galitsin, go! Don't come near me."
The Manager laughed: "Composing, Velasco?"
"Can't you see it? Of course I am composing. Go!" He waved his hand towards the door. "Don't talk."
"You must talk with me," exclaimed the Manager briskly, "Now Velasco, there's no use, you will have to listen to reason. The way you are behaving is outrageous, abominable! All your German engagements have gone to the wall. My desk is piled high with letters; the agents are furious. In Leipzig the Gewandhaus was entirely sold out a fortnight ago. In Dresden there isn't a seat left. Why the money loss is something tremendous! I had a telegram this morning; they are nearly crazy. You must keep your engagements; you will ruin your career utterly, absolutely. You will never dare show your face in Germany again. And here you sit composing—composing! Good heavens, you look like it! You look as if you had been on a bat for a week! You look drunk, Velasco, drunk! I never saw such a change in a man! Come—wake up! Rouse yourself! Take the train tonight."
The Manager laid his arm on the young Musician's shoulder and patted it soothingly.
"Take the night train, Velasco. You ought to be playing, not composing! You know that as well as I do. If you go tonight, you will reach Leipzig in time. It makes a difference of thousands of roubles to me as well as to you; remember that. You musicians have no conscience. Come, Velasco—are you listening?"
The Musician stood listless, his hands in his pockets, staring down at the bricks of the chimney piece.
"What is that?" he exclaimed, "Were you speaking?—Oh, damn you, Galitsin, why don't you go? I'm not a slave! I won't stir one step in Germany if I don't feel like it; I swear I won't! Cancel everything, everything. Heavens! I couldn't play if I tried! You managers are like the old man of the mountain; you want to sit on my neck and lash me on as if I were Sinbad. All for the sake of a few dirty roubles to put in your pocket! What do I care? I won't do it, I tell you. Go and manage somebody else; get another slave. Petrokoff over there in Moscow! He will be like a little lamb and eat out of your hand. Now be off—be off! Your voice is like a bee buzzing."
Velasco threw himself back in his chair again and blinked defiantly up at the Manager through his bloodshot eyes. They were heavy and weary, he could scarcely keep them open; his fingers strummed against the arm of the chair and he began to whistle to himself softly, a quaint little Polish air like a folk-song. Galitsin shook his head frowning:
"You are a perfect child, Velasco, when this mood gets hold of you. There is no doing anything with you. Very well then, I wash my hands of the whole business. Answer your own letters and satisfy the agents, if you can. Tell them you are ill, dying, dead—anything you please."
"Bah!" said Velasco, "Don't answer them at all." He shut his eyes.
The Manager gave a hasty glance about the Studio and then he bent his head to the chair, whispering:
"You have acted badly enough before, heaven knows, but never like this. It is not the composing. Where is the score?—Not a note!" He breathed a few words in Velasco's ear and the Musician started up.
"How did you know; who told you? The devil take you, Galitsin!"
The Manager smiled, running his hands through his short, crisp curls. "Everyone knows; all St. Petersburg is talking about it. When a man of your fame, Velasco, insists on befriending a Countess, and one who is the daughter of Mezkarpin, and an anarchist to boot—"
He spread out his hands: "Ah, she is beautiful, I know. I saw her at the Mariínski. She stared at you as if she were bewitched. You had every excuse; but get down on your knees, Velasco, and give thanks. It is no fault of yours that you are not tramping through the snow to Siberia now, just as she is. A lesser man, one whose career was less marked! By heaven, Velasco, what is it?—You are choking me!"
"Say it again!" cried the Musician, "You know where she is? Tell me! By God, will you tell me, or not?—I'll force it out of you!"
"Let go of my throat!" gasped the Manager. "Sit down, Velasco! Don't be so excitable, so violent! No wonder you play with such passion; but I am not a violin, if you please. Take your hands off my throat and sit down."
"Where is she?"
Galitsin straightened his collar and necktie before the mirror of the mantel-piece. "What is the matter with you, Velasco? Any one would suppose you were in love with her! Better not; she is doomed—she is practically dead."
"Dead!"
"Don't fly up like that!—Sit down! I saw the Chief of Police yesterday, and he gave me some advice to hand on to you."
"Is she dead, Galitsin?"
"No, but she will be. She is sent with a gang to the Ékaterinski Zavad. They are gone already, chained together, and marching through the snow and the cold. It is thousands of miles. A Countess, who has undoubtedly never taken a step in her life without a maid—who knows! She is frail, she won't live to get there."
The room was still for a moment and suddenly a coal fell from the fire to the hearth with a thud, flaring up. Then it broke into ashes. Presently the Manager continued:
"She shot the Grand-Duke Stepan, they say. I don't know. The thing has been hushed up for the sake of Mezkarpin, poor man! The Chief told me he had had a stroke in the prison and may not recover. The girl must be a tigress!—Velasco! Are you asleep?—Wake up!—Velasco!"
"What mines did you say, Galitsin?"
"The Ékaterinski Zavad."
"They have started already?"
"Yesterday."
"The Chief told you that?"
"The Chief himself told me."
"Did he mention the route?"
"By the old road through Tobolsk, I dare say, the usual one. Come, Velasco, don't brood over it!"
"Were they chained?"
The Musician shuddered and moved his limbs uneasily. "Chains, Galitsin? Fancy, how horrible! How they must clank! It must be maddening—jingling, rattling with every step—Ah!"
The Manager shrugged his shoulders. "When a woman undertakes to murder the Grand-Duke Stepan, what else can she expect? Mezkarpin is a friend of the Tsar, otherwise she would have been hung, or shot!—Why of course! The Chief said she was utterly brazen about it. She asked over and over if he were dead, and then said she was glad. Lucky for you, Velasco, they recognized you, they didn't take you for an accomplice; you would never have touched a violin again. All the same—"
He glanced around the Studio again and his voice grew lower: "The Chief gave warning. You are to leave Russia, he said. Velasco—listen to me! He said you must leave Russia at once, to-night—do you hear?"
The Manager leaned forward and shook the Musician's shoulder angrily. "Velasco, do you hear?—If you won't go for your Art, you must go for your safety.—Do you hear me? You must!"
"I hear you," said Velasco, "You needn't bellow in my ear like a bull! If I must, I suppose I must. Go and write your letters and leave me in peace."
"Shall I tell the agents you are coming?"
"Tell them anything you like. Pull me about on wires like a little tin puppet, and set me down anywhere in Europe, just as you please. I feel like an automaton! You will be winding up my Stradivarius next with a key. Now go, or I won't stir a step!"
The Manager took up his gloves and cane; he seemed uneasy. "You swear you will start to-night, Velasco?"
"Be off!"
"By the night train? I shall meet you at the station."
"Very well. Good-bye."
"The Night Express?"
The Musician closed his eyes and nodded. "You cackle like an old woman, Galitsin; you would talk a cricket dumb. Send me up Bobo, if you see him, will you?—Good-bye."
Galitsin took out his watch. "In three hours then," he said, "Au revoir! You have plenty of time to pack. Eleven thirty, Velasco."
The door closed behind the short, thick-set figure with the crisp, curling hair, and the Musician waited in his chair. Presently the door opened again.
"Is that you, Bobo,—eh? Come in. I sent for you. Didn't you tell me your wife was ill?"
"Yes, Bárin."
"You would like to go to her to-night?—Well, go. I shan't need you. Don't jabber, you make my head spin. Go at once and stay until morning; leave the cigarettes on the tray and the wine on the table—that is all. Just take yourself off and quietly."
After a moment or two the door closed, and the sound of footsteps, scuffling in list slippers, died slowly away in the corridor. Velasco leaned forward with his head in his hands, his bloodshot eyes staring into the coals.
"He may be one of them," he murmured, "or he may not. You can't trust people. He is better out of the way."
The haggard look had deepened on his face; then he rose suddenly from his chair and went into the next room, dropping the curtain behind him. There were sounds in the room as of the pulling out of drawers, the creaking of keys in a rusty lock, steps hurrying from one spot to another, the fall of a heavy boot. Then presently the curtain was drawn aside and he reappeared.
No, it was not Velasco; it was some one else, a gypsey in a rakish costume. The mane of black hair was clipped close to his head; he wore a scarf about his waist, a shabby jacket of velveteen on his back; his trousers were short to the knees, old and spotted; his boots were worn at the heel and patched. It wasn't Velasco—it was a gypsey, a tattered, beggarly ragamuffin, with dark, brooding eyes and a laugh on his lips, a laugh that was like a twist of the muscles.
He crossed the room stealthily on his tiptoes, glancing about him, and stood before the mirror examining himself. At the first glance he laughed out loud; then he clapped his hand over his mouth, listening again. But he was alone, and the form reflected in the mirror was his own, no shadow behind. He snatched up the lamp and held it close to the glass, peering at himself from the crown of his close-cropped head to the patch on his boot. He gazed at the scarf admiringly; it was red with tassels, and he patted it with his free hand.
"That is how they do it!" he cried softly, laughing. "It is perfect. I don't know myself! Ha ha!—I would cheat my own shadow. If the door should open now, and Galitsin should come in—the ox! How he would stare! And Bobo, poor devil, he would take me for a thief in my own Studio.—God, what is that?—a step on the stairs! The police! They come preying like beasts and seize one at night. She told me!"
The gypsey's hand trembled and shook, and the wick of the lamp flared up. Great heaven! The step crept nearer—it was at the door—the door moved! It was opening!
He dropped the lamp with a crash; the light went out and he staggered back against the wall, clutching his scarf, straining his ears to hear in the darkness.
The door opened wider.
Some one slipped through it and closed it again, and the step came nearer, creaking on the boards. He heard the soft patter of hands feeling their way, the faint sound of a breath. It was worse than in the carriage, because the room was so large and the matches were on the table, far off. There was no way of seeing, or feeling. The step came nearer.
If it was a spy, he could grapple with him and throw him. The gypsey took a step forward towards the other step, and all of a sudden two bodies came together, grappling, wrestling. Two cries went up, the one loud, the other faint like an echo.
"Hush, it is I, Velasco! You are soft like a woman! Your hair—It is you, Kaya! It is you! I know your voice—your touch! Did you hear the lamp crash? Wait! Let me light a candle."
He stumbled over to the table, feeling his way, clutching the soft thing by the arm, the shoulder.
"It is you, Kaya, tell me, it is you! Damn the match, it is damp, how it sputters!—Put your face close, let me see it. Kaya! Is it you, yourself?"
The two faces stared at one another in the flickering light, almost touching; then the other sprang back with a cry of dismay.
"You are a gypsey, you are not Velasco! The voice is his,—Dieu! And the eyes—they are his, and the brows! Let me go! Don't laugh—let me go!"
"No—no, Kaya, come back! It is I. They told me you were chained with a gang; and were walking through the snow and the cold to the mines. How did you escape; how could you escape?"
"Yes—it is you," said the girl, "I see now. It was the costume, and your hair is all cut. I thought you had gone in the train to Germany." She shuddered and clung to his hand. "Why do you wear that? Why aren't you gone? The Studio was vacant, I thought—deserted, or I shouldn't have come!"
Velasco gazed at her, chafing the cold, soft fingers between his own. "Oh God, how I have suffered! I tried to reach you, I did everything, and then I shut myself up here waiting—I was nearly mad. Kaya—you escaped from the fortress alone, by yourself? Did they hurt you? You cried out; it rings in my ears—that cry! It has never left me! I shut myself up and paced the floor. Did they hurt you?"
The girl looked over her shoulder: "It was horrible, alone," she breathed, "Some of the guards, the sentinels, belong to us. Hush—no one knows; it must never be guessed. To-night, after dark, someone whistled—one was waiting for me in the corridor with the keys; the others were drugged. They handed me on to someone outside; I was dropped like a pebble over the wall. Then I ran—straight here I ran."
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.
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.